


alone in my bedroom at arles

by arms_full_of_hyacinths



Category: Clone High
Genre: Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mutual Pining, Picnics, Prom, Tiny Wine And Tiny Cheese, Vincent's Art
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:29:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27166607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arms_full_of_hyacinths/pseuds/arms_full_of_hyacinths
Summary: JFK’s foster dads convince him to attend a local gallery show with them. Obviously, he hates it. Painting is mostly for sissies, there are no portraits of hot babes, and they won’t let him chug the tiny glasses of wine. There’s just one painting he can’t stop looking at, and one red-headed artist he can't get off his mind.
Relationships: JFK/Vincent Van Gogh (Clone High)
Comments: 159
Kudos: 308





	1. the gallery

“Hey, baby,” Wally called through the door to JFK’s bedroom. “Got time today for some quality parental bonding?”

JFK, who had been trying and failing to shoot balled-up dirty socks into his laundry basket, groaned. “Not _now_ , dad. I’m, err, uh, thinking about nailing hot babes.”

“That’s great, honey! You know we love and support you no matter what. We’d just like to spend some time with you. We haven’t been having as many family dinners lately, and there’s this event your father and I were planning to attend. I hear there’ll be complimentary refreshments.”

Abandoning his dirty socks on the bed, JFK shot across his room and threw open the door. “Did somebody say, uh, free snacks? Because I’m pretty sure that’s what those words mean.”

Wally chuckled. “I thought you might like that. There’s a gallery opening in town. They’ll be displaying work from some local artists, along with the free wine and cheese and crackers you always get from those places. Would you like to come along?”

JFK sniffed. “I don’t like art. But I do like cheese. And, err, probably wine. I’ll do it.”

“Oh, that’s just wonderful, sweetheart. I know you prefer sports, but I hope you’ll enjoy some of the pieces on display. You get ready. Carl and I will be in the car!”

The door swung shut, and JFK surveyed his room. A gallery opening. Not exactly one of his usual hangouts. He sniffed one of the white button-downs scattered around his room. It didn’t smell too bad, so he threw it on.

Usually he would wear his signature red and white sweater to any event. On the other hand, he’d never been to a gallery before, and he wasn’t sure whether dressing casually might make him look like an idiot in front of all those art nerds. He supposed there was always the black suit jacket he’d worn to Ponce’s funeral, which sat in his closet alongside the other boy’s fancy pants. JFK shuddered. He couldn’t just go wearing Ponce’s clothes to any lame event with his dads. The suit jacket wouldn’t feel right either. Instead, he started digging through the heaps of clothes on the floor of his closet. After a few minutes he unearthed a letterman jacket. _El Capitán_ , it read across the back. There was a matching one labelled _Captain_ from the American football team, but it was tangled somewhere in the back of his closet, and he was running short on time.

He restyled his hair before heading down to meet his dads at the car. The evening would probably be a wash, but maybe he’d get lucky and run into a hot art chick. That would be cute. They could share some tiny cups of wine and she could talk about art while he subtly flexed his muscles.

Wally sat in the driver’s seat, Carl on the passenger side.

“Why do I gotta sit in the back?” JFK whined. “If anybody sees me, they’re, uh, gonna think I let my gay dads drive me around like a little kid.”

Carl grinned back over his shoulder. “Why don’t you lie down, hide, and stay quiet back there? Then none of the other kids’ll catch ya.”

JFK huffed and rested his head against the glass of the window.

His disappointment intensified when they arrived at the gallery. The only girls there were older women standing uncomfortably close to the paintings and one post-grad art student with a mullet and a nose piercing.

The second his foster dads looked away JFK grabbed a tiny cup of wine from the refreshment table. He tried to smile at the post-grad in a seductive sort of way, waggling one eyebrow. She snuck a glance around the room before subtly flipping him off.

In his rush to return the gesture, he spilled some of the wine on his arm. He cursed himself and tossed that glass into the trash so he could swipe at it with some paper napkins before it stained his shirt.

He picked another miniature glass off the table before following his dads into the next room of the exhibition. The two of them were busy admiring a painting that, to JFK, just looked like a bunch of colorful squares. He sighed as loud as he could.

“Oh, baby, there you are!” Wally exclaimed. “Aww, and you brought us one of those little wine cups.” He snatched the cup and daintily sipped it before JFK could argue.

“Yeah, err, right.” JFK decided that as long as he was going to be forced to spend his valuable time at such a total nerd-fest, he should try and entertain himself. He resolved to wander the building thinking about how stupid each of the paintings and their respective artists were.

It started out pretty well. There were some colorful squares, which JFK mentally compared to a rubix cube: double nerd. One canvas was covered in splotches that he thought mostly looked like butts. He snuck a glance at the plaque beside it and found out that they were meant to look like butts, which was fun in its own way. He was busy rolling his eyes at a portrait of a woman with her eyes scratched out when he spotted the canvas.

It was a collage of images in different art styles, mostly cartoonish, a few drawn in crayon. They were all guns. Blood— _red paint, just red paint, he reminded himself_ —dripped from the bottom. Nausea rose in his stomach.

Staring forcefully at the floor, he spun on his heel and headed back for the main exhibition room. His breaths were coming in short gasps. He couldn’t scream in the middle of a gallery, surrounded by old women, with his foster dads in the next room over. Instead he tried to focus on the walls again.

The paintings just weren't _good_ , as far as he could tell. They were sketched and battered and all very dark. Most of them made him even sadder to look at. Finally, huddled in a corner by the snack bar, he turned to a painting hung on the outside edge of the show floor.

Four dying sunflowers were scattered across the scene. Their withered petals drooped, brown and papery. A tiny, illustrated figure lay curled among them, cartoonish outline contrasting with the realistic flowers. A shock of orange hair was marred by a blood-spattered bandage. His face was tilted towards the viewer, tear tracks running down towards a simply sketched flower clutched in his hands. A shroud of petals loomed over him.

JFK stared at the painting, his watering eyes tracing the contours of gnarled stems. There had been flowers on Ponce’s grave. By the time he managed to force himself out of bed on a weekend, days after the funeral, and visit his old friend, they were all wilted. He’d gone back home and cocooned himself under the blankets just like that, curling up in the fetal position and wishing everything would go away.

“JFK?” someone asked from behind him. “What are you doing here?”

He swallowed, forcing down his tears, and spun around to see—no one there?

He tilted his head down. Standing right in front of him, arms crossed and forehead furrowed, was his classmate. The artsy sad kid. That would explain why the figure in the painting had looked so familiar, with his noisy red hair and signature bandage.

“That’s me. Uh, what’s your name again?”

The shorter boy rolled his eyes. “Vincent van Gogh. We have class together.”

“Right, Vincent. You painted this?” he replied, thumbing at the canvas.

A blush lit up Vincent’s cheeks. “Yes. Shut up, I know it’s stupid. My art teacher said I should submit something, and this was the best I could think of. Is that why you’re here? To mock the art?”

JFK ran his eyes over the painting again. “It’s, err, uh, nice. Really nice.”

“What?” Vincent’s look of confusion deepened. “Are you messing with me?”

“No, I mean, uh, I like it. Don’t get me wrong, I do not like art. But this art is pretty good. It makes me—feel things. I’m a Kennedy. I’m not, err, used to that kind of tragic emotion!”

A small smile played at the corners of Vincent’s lips. “Oh. That’s nice of you to say, JFK. It’s, uh, about loneliness. About—feeling like you’re losing yourself to something that’s massive and miserable and dying. Sorry, that probably sounds a bit pretentious.”

Solemnly, JFK nodded. “No, I think I, uh, get what you mean.”

“Really?” Vincent looked almost excited. “Would you be willing to talk about it with me for a minute? Here, I can get us some tiny cheese and wine.”

“They’re letting you drink the wine?”

Vincent shrugged. “The artists and the owner know me; I think they just don’t care.” He darted over to the table to collect two plates and glasses.

JFK let his gaze drift back to the painting. He wasn’t lying, he really did like it. He could feel the emotion rolling off the canvas. It felt like drowning in the sadness Ponce had left him with. At the same time, there was something freeing about seeing it expressed outside of himself. He wasn’t the one going under. He was just watching at a distance, understanding and remembering without having to experience it again.

When Vincent appeared at his side with miniature refreshments, JFK almost screamed.

“Here’s some of that tiny cheese. I’m really not sure why they cut it so small.”

“Maybe, uh, because they’re too cheap to give us the big wedges we deserve?”

Vincent shrugged. “I always assumed it was so people had lots of little things to mess with instead of talking and revealing they know nothing about art.”

On cue, JFK bit down on a cube of cheese. “Mmmhm.”

“Anyway, I guess what I was trying to express with this piece is the feeling of running out of time. The flowers are wilting. I’m in there, and I’m wilting along with them, but like—wilting internally. The flowers are based on one of the real Vincent’s paintings, but I’ve literally inserted myself into the piece in a bid to leave my mark on it.”

JFK squinted at his cup of tiny wine, trying to calculate whether he could dump the whole thing down his throat at once without having to taste it. “It looks nice. And I, uh, see what you were trying to do with the little you being all freaked out.”

“I’m surprised you can appreciate it, honestly. Did you actually just come to the show to appreciate local art?”

“Well, no.” JFK looked around, willing his dads not to appear. “My foster parents dragged me here. I think most of this art, err, belongs in the toilet.”

Vincent snorted. “Crass, but I can’t say I disagree. I try to respect the unique perspective of every artist. But sometimes, when I see people so blatantly going for shock factor on impersonal issues that have been covered a million times, it just bores me. Like the piece on gun violence in the other room. The execution is great, the crayon is quite powerful. It’s just that the idea is so trite.”

“Yeah, I, err, really didn’t like that one. It made me feel bad, in a bad way. Your painting makes me feel bad in a good way! And I like that.”

“Thanks, that means a lot. I’m always trying to improve my expression of emotion. To be a bit more like him.” Vincent ran a finger around the edge of his own tiny glass. “Do you ever… worry about living up to it?”

“Living up to what?” JFK had just managed to cram about a dozen tiny cubes of cheese into his mouth, and they muffled his words a bit.

“The legacy of the originals. I mean, do you ever wonder if perhaps you won’t grow into as great a man as the real John F. Kennedy?”

JFK offered him a week, cheese-coated grin. “Well I, err, uh, wouldn’t say the real JFK got the full ‘growing up’ experience.” His eyes darted nervously back to the room with the gun painting.

Vincent’s soft laugh snapped him out of his anxiety. He pressed a palm to the left side of his bandaged head. Slowly, it fell to his chest. “I guess most of the originals didn’t make it very far, huh?”

“Well, err, no. But I guess I do worry sometimes.”

“Really?” Vincent quirked an eyebrow, reclining against the wall to look up at JFK. “Even you?”

With a shrug, JFK surveyed Vincent’s painting again. “I mean, look at you. You’re an artist. Even a good artist. That’s, err, a lot closer than the rest of us get to living up to expectations. I couldn’t even win student body president! And, er, I wouldn’t say I’m lacking in the body department. So that only leaves the president!”

That earned him another laugh from Vincent. JFK couldn’t help grinning down at the other boy. So maybe he wasn’t a perfect reproduction of the original JFK; he still knew how to entertain a crowd.

“Anyway, erh, why all the questions, shortstack? I’ve got a few years to go before making a run on the White House. And I don’t know much about art, but I’m pretty sure you’re a bit young to be putting your pretty pictures up at a gallery opening. Why worry about it?”

“Why worry, indeed. I suppose I just can’t help feeling that I’m not living up to my true potential. That perhaps I never will. And I wish—I don’t know why it bothers me so much. Sometimes I just feel that my art is all I have, and if that isn’t enough, then I have nothing to contribute to the world at all.”

JFK frowned. “You’ve, uh, got yourself, haven’t you? I consider myself a God-given gift to the world.”

“Yes. I suppose I admire that about you.” Vincent smiled down into his glass, missing JFK’s look of exaggerated shock. “I wish it were so easy for me to like myself.”

“Right.” JFK swallowed. Of course he liked himself. He was strong, and tough, and had washboard abs. He could get any girl he wanted. His hair was fantastic. He had an ass that wouldn’t quit. What was there to dislike? He had to like himself.

With a sigh, Vincent drained his glass. “Perhaps if I had the sort of popularity and camaraderie that seems to come so easily to others. But as it is, I simply sit alone in my bedroom most nights.”

“Well, I, err, don’t know about all that ‘comrades’ stuff, but maybe you and I could hang out some time.”

He wasn’t expecting the look of shocked joy that spread across Vincent’s face. “I—oh, that would be—do you mean that?”

He set his glass down on a side table and puffed out his chest. “Would I lie to you?” As a rule, JFK was not above lying, but he did have a reputation to maintain among the student body.

“That would be nice.” A slight flush spread across Vincent’s pale face. “Caesar’s the only one who ever spends time with me outside of class.”

“Yeah, sure.” JFK shrugged. “Most of the kids at school are, uh, total nerds anyway. What’s a little more time, err, hanging out with nerds?” He elbowed Vincent, trying to show he was just messing with the other boy.

With a breathy gasp of laughter, Vincent batted him away. “Yes, yes, I understand. But truly. Thank you for the offer, JFK. I understand you’re a busy man.”

“JFk, baby!” Wally’s voice rang from the other room. “Are you ready to get going?”

JFK groaned. “That’s, err, my dad. I guess I’d better get going. It was nice meeting you. Uh, again.”

Vincent’s smile was still weak, but when he blinked up at JFK with those wide eyes, JFK couldn’t help thinking that it was a nice one. Not quite as stunning as his own signature grin. Definitely not babe-alicious, or anything. Just a nice soft smile.

He returned it with a brilliant grin and an extremely shaky finger gun. As he hurried towards Wally’s voice, he took one last look at Vincent’s painting. The other boy was frowning in his little self-portrait. Tears traced down the contours of his face. JFK decided that the next time he saw Vincent, he’d talk to him about painting himself smiling instead. It would make for a prettier picture. On the other hand, maybe that was the point? He’d have to ask.

When he slid into the backseat without argument, Wally flashed him a smile in the mirror. “Thanks for coming along, baby. I know art isn’t really your thing. You know, the real JFK was known for exactly that sort of diplomacy.”

JFK shrugged. “I, uh, had an okay time actually. Still don’t like art. But it could’ve been worse.”

They pulled away from the curb into the dim evening. JFK watched out the back window as the gallery lights shrank behind them. He felt like he was leaving something behind—something he wanted to get back to, should’ve taken when he had the chance—he just wasn’t sure what.

He smacked a hand to his face and wailed as realization hit him. “Damn it. I, err, uh, forgot my tiny wine!”


	2. green wheat field with cypress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vincent holds out hope and has a few realizations. JFK, err, uh, eats some more cheese.

Vincent huddled in the back corner with his head ducked close to a book. It was lunchtime, which for him meant hiding out in the art room and cramming a few bites of fruit and goldfish crackers into his mouth between brushstrokes.

The drive to start a new project and distract himself was overwhelming. Ever since the gallery show, Vincent heart had walked a tightrope strung between hope and anxiety over his conversation with JFK. The idea that the other boy might really want to be his friend was tantalizing. On the other hand, it was far more likely that JFK would spread around some gossip about Vincent’s idiotically emotional painting. He’d taken another step toward hope when he arrived at school and wasn’t smacked with a barrage of taunting voices in the halls. Still, his only run-in with JFK all day had been a glimpse of him rushing towards first period, and the taller boy hadn’t even noticed Vincent was there.

Vincent was trying to find inspiration in another of the original van Gogh’s works. Since his first re-painting did well enough to be shown in a local gallery, he thought he might turn the piece into the first of a series. He paged through a book checked out from the school library. Starry blues and dusky yellows shifted past his gaze.

Finally, he landed on a series of reproductions from van Gogh’s Auvers period. The emerald hues of grassy green fields instantly felt right. He stared down at _Green Wheat Field With Cypress_. The small text box beside it informed him that the original van Gogh had painted it during his stay at the Saint-Paul asylum, shortly after he was first allowed outside to paint. Vincent imagined what it must have been like to step outside, breathe the fresh air, and take up a brush after the original’s confinement to a sparse monastery room.

There was something about the painting’s lush green hue that really spoke to him. Vincent just couldn’t put his finger on it.

Suddenly, a pair of verdant green eyes filled his field of vision. “Hey, err, uh, shortstop. Figured I’d find you here.”

Vincent leaned back in his chair; eyes wide. JFK crouched in front of his desk. His chiseled chin rested on his hands. He grinned up at Vincent with an open friendliness that tugged something in the artist’s chest.

“Oh! Uh, hi, JFK. Good to see you?”

The taller boy rose to his full height and threw his arms back behind his head. “Figured we could hang out a bit today, like I said. So, uh, where do you usually grab grub around here?”

“I usually prefer to eat in the art room,” Vincent admitted, shoving his book into his bag. “But I’m happy to go wherever you would like.”

He couldn’t believe the school’s resident popular jock was really willing to spend time with him. He didn’t care where he ate his goldfish crackers; the idea that a _friend_ wanted to eat with him would keep him going for the rest of the day.

JFK’s face crinkled in thought. “Err, no offense, but it kinda smells like paint in here. I mostly just eat in the cafeteria.”

Vincent glanced out the classroom window. It was a perfect day, beams of golden afternoon sun striking the fresh-mowed central lawn and gilding all the edges of Clone High with copper. “Perhaps we could take our lunches outside?”

With a snap of his fingers, JFK picked up Vincent’s bag and swung it over one shoulder. “Bright idea. I’m, uh, always working on that perfect tan. Let’s get moving.”

“Oh, okay!” Vincent hurried down the hall behind JFK, who carried both of their full bags like they were nothing. The taller boy kicked open a side door. Vincent ducked through after him. “Where should we sit?”

After a quick scan of the quad, JFK set their things down in the shade of a sweetgum tree, shoving away a couple spiny fruit. “I, uh, come out here to practice my smiles and waves sometimes. That’s most of a career in politics, based on, err, what I’ve seen on TV. This okay?”

Vincent settled down just at the edge of the tree’s ring of shade, letting dappled sunlight run across his back. “Yes, this looks perfect. Thank you for spending time with me today.”

“Don’t mention it, short—actually, err, are you alright with me calling you shortstack?” JFK slumped back against the tree and narrowed his eyes at Vincent. “Joan screamed at me the other day that I oughta be nicer to people. She also, uh, roundhouse kicked me in the abs.”

“Oh my! Are you hurt?” Vincent scrambled forward, hovering his hands over JFK’s chest, ready to administer emergency aid. There was a medical kit crammed into his backpack for when he had to change the bandages around his head.

JFK waved him off. “Nah, my rock-hard abs absorbed the impact pretty well. But, err, is that okay with you?”

Vincent chewed his bottom lip. “I suppose it’s fine? I’ve never had a classmate use a nickname for me that wasn’t in cruel jest, so I’m rather unused to the feeling. But I haven’t minded it so far. You should feel free to call me Vincent too, of course.”

“And, uh, how about Vince? Vinnie?”

With a shrug, Vincent tried to match JFK’s perpetual sunny smile. “I don’t believe I mind. It is nice of you to ask me, though. You have my gratitude.”

The smile on JFK’s face brightened by what must have been a megawatt. “Err, uh, don’t mention it— Vinnie. Anyway, some people call me Jack. And by people, I mean my friends. So, err, you can call me Jack if you want to.”

Vincent struggled to keep eye contact. That was confirmation; JFK actually considered Vincent his friend. “Thank you, Jack. I appreciate it.”

“You, err, don’t gotta keep thanking me for the small stuff, short stuff.” JFK winked and Vincent felt himself blush furiously.

It was honestly embarrassing how little effort it took to make him flush. The sensation of his face heating up was all too familiar. He hoped that JFK—Jack—wouldn’t think he was strange. No matter how nice the other boy was acting, Vincent knew how cruel popular kids could be when given the chance. As much as he wanted to believe that Jack had decided to be his friend out of kindness or on a whim, a sharp voice in the back of his mind kept reminding him of a series of less fortunate possibilities. Perhaps the other boy was only toying with him, trying to gain his trust before inevitably ripping his heart out and stomping on it.

“What’ve you, ah, got to eat?” JFK asked, pulling a brown paper bag out of his backpack. He laid out what to Vincent looked like a feast. A sandwich with the crusts neatly sliced off, a sleeve of crackers, sliced cheese, a baggie of fresh strawberries, a few sugar snap-peas, a juice pouch, a cup of pudding _and_ a cup of jello emerged from the sack.

Vincent stared down at the lone apple and baggie of goldfish crackers sitting forlornly in his own bag. “Just some snacks.”

Without another word, JFK tore his sandwich in half and presented a piece to Vincent. “Toasted turkey and cheddar?”

“Oh, no, thank you. I couldn’t possibly take your food away from you.”

JFK waved the sandwich closer to his face. “C’mon. My, uh, dad always makes too much food. I keep telling him it’s not cool to have a lunch your dad packed, but, err, he just says it makes him happy. I probably won’t finish it anyway. Besides, you, uh, got me all that tiny cheese the other night!”

Hesitantly, Vincent accepted the sandwich. “Well, thank you, Jack. That’s very generous of you.” He took a bite. Clearly, JFK’s foster dad knew what he was doing. The bread was crisp and satisfyingly chewy. A thick slab of white cheddar oozed from under a layered stack of sliced turkey breast. A thin coating of tart red sauce had been smeared on one side of the bread.

“Thanks for, err, helping me get through it!” JFK immediately undermined his own argument by tearing through the rest of his lunch at frightening speed.

“Jack?” Vincent asked after a moment, surveying the other boy over his sandwich.

JFK’s mouth was already full, but he raised his eyebrows. “Mmmhmf?”

“Do you get along with your foster parents?”

Confusion spread across his face as he chewed and swallowed. “Err, yeah. I, uh, love my dads. I mean, they’re pretty good guys. We don’t, uh, have all the same interests, but, err. That’s not really the point.”

Vincent bit his lip. “No, I suppose not.”

“Yeah, I mean, they’re always there for me when I need ‘em.” He shook his cup of jello. It jiggled, and JFK laughed, apparently immune to Vincent’s sudden gloom. “And they, uh, do stuff for me. Ya know? Pack my lunch, do laundry, get me out of the house. They, uh, took me to that gallery. They raised me, yanno? And I just, uh, I think they’re doing their best. I mean, what else can ya really expect?”

Vincent took a bite of sandwich to avoid responding. He gave a vague nod. He should have guessed that someone as perfect as JFK would fit right into his foster family too. Crushing a goldfish cracker between his teeth, he wondered what it might be like to have someone pack a lunch for him. He’d been eating the school’s pre-packaged meals since Clone Elementary. By the time he reached Clone Middle School he’d known how to cook for himself, but there was always so little time and energy in the mornings. An orange or a sleeve of cookies usually got him through the day just fine.

He looked back up and found himself staring right into JFK’s sparkling eyes. They were beautiful, he realized. Perfect orbs of soft gray-green. _Look away before he realizes you’re staring, creep_ , he chided himself.

“What about you, Vinnie? You, uh, get along okay with your folks?”

The empty bag of crackers crumpled in Vincent’s clenched fist. “Oh, yes. They—they do their best, as you said.” He tried to laugh it off, but the noise came out wrong, stilted and pitched too high.

JFK narrowed his unfairly pretty eyes. “Look, we, uh, don’t gotta talk about it.”

“No, no, I—she really does try. My foster parents divorced when I was very young. I live with my mother, who works full-time to support us. She does her best to care for me. I suppose, as you said, that is all we can expect. She’s simply… busy. My foster father was always interested in my work, but she isn’t much of an artist. She prefers gardening. We used to work in the garden together, but now she works such long hours that most of its upkeep has fallen to me.”

Vincent snuck a glance at JFK and saw that the other boy looked almost cartoonishly concerned. His eyebrows had drawn up to furrow his forehead and his lips were twisted in a pout. He stared at Vincent with wide eyes, looking almost like a disappointed puppy.

“As I said, she does try,” Vincent rushed to follow up. “She’s quite a good parent, really. I only wish she was around more often. We—we don’t spend much time together these days. And I think that sometimes she struggles to understand my—ah, emotional experience?” All too conscious of the fact that he was oversharing deeply to a school bully who’d only just decided to be kind to him, Vincent forced himself to shut up.

JFK gave a single nod. “That’s, err, tough. Thanks for tellin’ me. I, uh—I guess I’m here if you ever, err, wanna talk about other stuff. Since the hotline didn’t go so good.”

“Right.” Vincent snorted. “I hate Ghandi.”

“You sure, uh, showed him though! That’s the power of art or whatever.”

Vincent smiled. “I suppose you’re right.” He took another bite of his sandwich and tried to really enjoy it. The weather was beautiful, there was food to eat, and he was sitting with a friend. There was no need to dwell on the negative.

They ate in relative quiet, enjoying a light breeze ruffling through the leaves of the sweetgum tree above. Vincent couldn’t help noticing how the beams of sunlight filtered through the branches to illuminate JFK’s face. His chestnut hair glowed in the soft light, the hollow of his throat dappled with shadow. He would make a very nice painting.

“Oh, Jackie,” crooned a soft voice. Marilyn Monroe stood just past the tree’s halo of shade. One hand pressed into the fold of her skirt to keep it from whipping around in the breeze. “What’s keeping you out here?”

Vincent tried to ignore the rush of irritation he felt at having their meal interrupted. After all, being hounded by gorgeous women was probably a regular part of JFK’s day. He took a deep breath and was suddenly hit by an aftershock of jealousy. Had Monroe called him _Jackie_?

“I, err, uh, told ya not to call me that,” JFK replied, smile never faltering. “I’m eating. I, uh, figured that was pretty clear. What brings _you_ over here?”

Monroe dropped down to perch on her knees, hands folded neatly in her lap. “See, Jackie, I was just looking over the list of yearbook superlatives, and I see that there’s one for ‘cutest campus couple’. I got to thinking about the cutest couples I know on campus, and, well—I thought maybe you and I could have a shot.”

JFK shoved the last of his strawberries into his mouth whole and chewed thoughtfully. “But we, err, aren’t a couple.”

“Well, not yet.” Monroe winked. “I was thinking we’d get an early start on yearbook season.”

Vincent felt his face heat up by proxy.

“Why don’t you go and ask, uh, Anne Boleyn? Or the hot Elvis twin?”

Monroe rolled her eyes. “Because, baby, they’re not popular enough to make it in the yearbook. Last year it was you and Cleo.”

JFK grimaced. “Uh, look, Marilyn, I get where you’re coming from. Err. I, uh, I just—uhhhhh…” He glanced at Vincent, looking endearingly helpless.

“Sorry, he’s not interested,” Vincent said, stunned by his own confidence. “Could you please let us finish eating in peace?”

Monroe raised one perfect eyebrow. “Oh, I see. Sorry darling, I didn’t know he was off the market. You two have a nice day!”

Vincent was pretty sure his face matched his hair. He tried to stammer a response, but Monroe was already strutting back across the lawn.

JFK took a bite of his pudding cup. “Jeez. That is one ambitious broad, eh? Thanks for talking back to her like that. I, uh, I’m not the best at sayin’ ‘no’ sometimes.”

Pride swelled in Vincent’s chest. “Yes, of course. That is, as far as I’m aware, what friends are for. Supporting each other.”

“Yeah, well, I always figured friends were mostly for holdin’ up your legs during a kegstand. But, uh, I think your version is nice too.” JFK grinned at him and in the glimmering afternoon warmth Vincent felt invincible.

“You know, JFK, sometimes I simply can’t tell if you’re joking.” He polished off the last bite of his sandwich. “Such as when you offered to spend time with me. Obviously, I am flattered that you were speaking honestly—I suppose that mistrust may be one of my own flaws.”

The other boy shrugged. “Eh. I know I can be, err, a bit of a tool sometimes. But hey, I like spending time with you, shortstack. You’re pretty cool for a nerd.”

Vincent leaned back to rest on his elbows, staring up through brilliant green foliage at the blue sky above. “Thank you, JFK. I believe you’re pretty cool too.”

“Yeah?” There was real, delighted surprise in JFK’s voice. “Huh. Nice. So, you, uh, think we oughta do this again some time?”

“Spend more time together? Yes, I believe that’s how most friendships proceed.” Vincent offered him a smile, which JFK returned with a wide lopsided grin. “Did you have anything particular in mind?”

JFK shrugged. “Lunch was, uh, about as much brainpower as I’ve got to spare on a weekday.”

“Well, speaking of lunch, I was planning to take a picnic out to the botanical gardens this week and do some landscape painting, if you’d care to join me. I—I understand that may not sound very exciting. I must confess that I don’t often leave my home.”

“Hey, no worries. Those, uh—bow—err—gardens sound good. You could come back to mine afterward and just, err, chill out with a movie or somethin’? When I go out with the guys we, uh, usually just drive around or hit the diner.”

Vincent’s smile stretched and tugged at his cheeks. “A movie sounds wonderful. I’m looking forward to it.”

JFK crumpled up his lunch bag and tossed it into his backpack. With a contented sigh, he leaned back against the trunk behind him. “Me too, shortstack. Me too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my love goes out to those who are commenting and leaving kudos!! The first chapter got a great response, so I'm putting this next one out. I'll keep writing content through a longer story as long as people are interested :) Special thanks to the first round of commenters, y'all are so sweet!! I'm especially grateful to cf and levis_teacup for encouraging me to expand it, and to eruh and Aaron for their story feedback. 
> 
> This fandom is on the smaller side, so if you have personal headcannons or requests for this ship that you haven't gotten to read yet, drop them in the comments and I'll consider adding them <3


	3. portrait of a woman in blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vincent and JFK have a little picnic, and JFK has a little crisis.

JFK navigated carefully across town. He’d learned one painful lesson about unsafe driving; it had cost him his prized red convertible and the ability to walk without a limp so slight he still held out hope that only he could see it. His injuries hadn’t changed his performance on the field, so really, it didn’t matter how badly the leg ached when he ran too long on it. He was very conscious of the stiffness in that leg as he leaned on the brake pedal.

His sensible red hatchback was highly rated in all kinds of road tests and came with a list of safety features so long he couldn’t remember them all. His dads’ only condition for helping him buy a new car had been that he take a couple remedial lessons. They hadn’t tried to push him in any direction about the make or model, though obviously they’d wanted something used. JFK had been the one to choose a less flashy car.

The babes didn’t swoon quite as readily over a used hatchback, but he was getting pretty fond of the car anyway. It just made him feel safe to get behind the wheel. The longer he sat with the knowledge of how the original John F. Kennedy had died, the less he found himself drawn to convertibles in general. His own accident had only solidified that anxiety.

He pulled himself out of a haze of thought as he turned down the road that led into the botanical garden. He had enough trouble trying to think and follow street signs at the same time; sighting Van Gogh would be damn near impossible if he let himself get distracted.

At least he’d assumed it would be. The smaller boy was generally easy to miss, huddled up in his blue overcoat and bandages, but JFK’s eyes flew right to him when he reached the parking lot. Vincent was waiting by the wooden bridge that led from the parking lot over a small stream toward the Info Center/Ticketing Booth/Gift Shop/Café.

A massive straw hat canopied over Vincent’s face, casting its own pool of shade on him. Even its shadow couldn’t dim the radiance of Vincent’s bright yellow button down. He wore it under a loose-fitting baby blue cardigan and tucked into a pair of brown corduroys. Enamel pins studded the cardigan’s lapels, mostly blue and yellow flowers. His sneakers were painted with blooming sunflowers.

He had a large canvas tucked under one arm. A wicker basket hung from the crook of his other elbow. He spotted JFK through the car windshield and let a slow smile bloom across his face, blue-green eyes shining as he tipped his head back to let sun hit his face. He gave a weak wave with the arm weighed down by the basket.

JFK nodded back and pulled into an empty space, careful to keep both hands on the wheel and slot himself evenly between the cars on either side.

Vincent scurried over to the car, basket swinging. He was waiting by the door when JFK swung it cautiously open. “Hi, Jack!” he chirped, lifting one hand to adjust the brim of his sunhat.

JFK grabbed his own basket—less of a basket and more of a leather backpack crammed with Ziploc baggies—and slipped out of the car. He hit Van Gogh with a blinding grin. “Hi. It’s, uh, good to see you, Vinnie.”

He’d been telling the truth the other day; he wasn’t exactly sure how to go about a ‘nice day out’ with a friend. He was used to rolling down empty backstreets with his windows down and a song cranked up to full blast. He was used to strolling down beaches with his chest puffed out, sharing raised eyebrows and cocky grins with shirtless friends as local ladies swooned over them. Picnics in gardens with paintings weren’t exactly his usual fare.

Even on dates, he usually just took girls to the Grassy Knoll or the Teen Sex Cove or right back to his house with a quick warning to his dads. He didn’t take them on picnic lunches in flowering gardens. Not that they were on a date, obviously.

Van Gogh lead the way across the small bridge, humming a soft tune under his breath. JFK found his eyes kept wandering over the other boy’s soft ginger hair curling out from under his sunhat and the delicate fingers that clutched one side of the canvas to hold it steady.

“I’ll cover tickets,” Vincent announced, holding his basket out toward JFK. “Hold onto this for me?”

“Err, okay.” JFK accepted the wicker handle and watched as Vincent practically skipped over to the open ticketing window. _I should pay for my own ticket_ , he thought, already far too late to catch Vincent, who was pulling cash out of his pocket. Two friends going to a park together should probably pay separately. Something about the whole scene— Vincent paying for them both while JFK hung back holding their picnic baskets and noticed for the first time the constellated freckles on the back of the smaller boy’s neck—didn’t sit quite right.

 _It’s not a date_ , JFK reminded himself when the woman in the ticketing booth shot him a knowing smile over Vincent’s shoulder. _It’s definitely not a date_ , he continued to chant as Vincent hurried back towards him with a fluttery grin and two tickets in his hand. _Vincent’s a guy, and we’re just friends, and we don’t even know each other that well_ —

His internal monologue was interrupted when Vincent cleared his throat. He shifted on his feet, glancing nervously up at JFK from under the brim of his hat. “So, shall we take a walk?”

“Uh, sure. I’ve never, err, been to one of these. Do we just—walk around?”

Vincent let out a soft laugh. JFK found himself grinning along, keeping pace as Vincent headed down a nearby path.

“Sorry, Jack, I keep forgetting it’s your first time at a botanical garden. Yes, we can just walk around. There are a few picnic tables closer to the center of the gardens. I like to observe which flowers are in bloom before I choose what to paint. In fact, that reminds me!” Vincent loosened his grip on the canvas to display a thin sketchbook tucked up against his side. “I brought my sketchbook and pencils. I mean, I usually bring them here. But, well, I thought perhaps you might want to join me in creating some art.”

He shot JFK a nervous glance. JFK had never been much for art, but he responded automatically with a cheery smile and a firm nod. “Sounds, err, fun. Thanks for thinking of me, shortstack.”

There were a few freckles scattered across Vincent’s nose and cheeks too, JFK realized. They stood out as his face was washed with a pleased flush. The shorter boy ducked his head and picked up his walking pace a bit. “Oh, of course! And I’ll be more than happy to assist you with any drawing techniques. Or to leave you be, obviously, whatever you prefer.”

“Yeah, sounds nice. You, err, know a lot more about all this, uh, art stuff than I do. I figure I could probably use the help.”

Instead of responding, Vincent suddenly put a finger to his lips and gestured to an open patch of grass and scrub alongside the path. A deer, eyes wide and ears pricked to attention, stepped out from between two bushes like a model pausing at the apex of her strut down the catwalk.

JFK put a hand over his own mouth and tried to tamp down his noise of excitement. He saw plenty of deer in Exclamation—he could even summon them to help pick up litter, when necessary—but he wasn’t used to seeing them so close.

Vincent, who was apparently standing closer than he’d thought, grasped the edge of JFK’s sweater. He wasn’t pulling him into a fight or trying to take it off, which were the usual reasons people touched JFK’s clothes. He just fisted his slim fingers into the fabric and looked up at JFK with delight sparkling in his eyes.

His chest hurt. JFK swallowed, keeping his hand over his mouth to try and disguise the way his smile had gone from gleeful to embarrassingly vulnerable.

The deer observed them for a few moments in silence. Neither of them moved. After a minute, it shifted course and veered in a wide half-moon around them to reach the other side of the path. It pranced off into the sprawling gardens.

The breathless laugh Vincent let out sent blood rushing to JFK’s face. The shorter boy looked up at him, eyes shining and mouth half-open in an awed smile, and JFK literally felt the pace of his heartbeat speed up. As casually as he could, he put some space between himself and Vincent before letting his hand fall from his mouth.

He wasn’t sure why being around the other boy had him so off-kilter, but he owed it to the guy to stay chill and make sure they had a nice day out. After all, wasn’t the whole point of spending time together making sure that Vincent felt he had friends?

“That was, err, pretty awesome, right?”

“I know! It was so close—and so beautiful! Well, if I wasn’t inspired to paint already, I certainly am now. That’s never happened to me before, and I come here rather often.” Vincent looked away, but JFK could hear the smile still ringing in his voice. “Perhaps you’re my good luck charm, Jack.”

“Uh—err—haha, yeah! So cool. Super cool.”

Thankfully, Vincent didn’t seem to notice his sudden change in mood. JFK tried to pull himself together as they continued down the path. His usual shyness dissipating, Vincent kept up a steady stream of commentary on the plants they passed. He had a special fondness for flowers, though he also seemed to know the species of every butterfly alighting on them, and he could identify a few of the bird calls ringing from scattered trees.

By the time they arrived at the picnic area, JFK was feeling more like himself.

Vincent settled on a table and gestured for him to set their food down. “I thought perhaps we could eat first, before I begin drafting, as it’s getting a bit late in the afternoon already.”

Vincent unpacked JFK’s bag first, carefully setting out the snacks he’d needed only minor help from Wally to prepare. The sandwiches were rough around the edges where JFK had trouble cutting crusts, the apple slices weren’t exactly even, he’d only been able to find one pudding cup, and he’d settled on juice boxes since his foster dads didn’t keep soda in the house. All the same, he was pretty proud of the little lunch spread he’d collected.

“This looks great,” Vincent said, unclasping his own basket.

JFK continued to feel proud of himself for about five seconds, after which Vincent pulled two chocolate croissants out of the wicker basket. They were followed by a bunch of red grapes, flatbread crackers, a wedge of brie, fig jam, and a full set of cups and silverware.

“Wow,” JFK said, drawing out the vowel. “That’s a real spread you got there, Vince. Thanks for, err, putting the time in.”

Vincent shrugged. “I wasn’t sure what to bring, so it’s mostly snacks. I’m so glad you thought to pack sandwiches! I hope this will be enough.”

JFK prided himself on a healthy appetite, but looking at the table laden with treats, he was pretty sure they had more than what the two of them could eat, even guessing generously. “I, err, think we’ll be okay.”

“I just hope the bees won’t be a problem this time. They tend to gather around food and around my canvases when I paint flowers.” He gave an adorable huff and rested his chin on his hand. “They don’t seem to understand that it’s paint, and thus, they can’t eat it.”

It took a few seconds for JFK to process the fact that he’d just perceived Vincent’s noise of irritation as _adorable_. “I, err, uh—right,” he stammered, searching for something casual and smooth and not at all creepy to reply with. “Uh, eat it, more like _beat_ it, am I right?”

 _That wasn’t creepy_ , his brain congratulated him, _but it was_ real _stupid_.

Vincent chuckled and rolled his eyes. “Oh, that was terrible! Uh—beat it, more like—more like _bee_ at it, yes?”

JFK groaned, and the smile Vincent fixed him with was far too bright. It almost blinded him. Maybe it did blind him, because he found himself blinking in the sunshine pouring off the smaller boy’s face, stunned by the brilliance of those eyes and freckles and the locks of hair freeing themselves from his bandages.

“Let’s dig in, then, shall we?” Vincent didn’t wait for a response before taking a bite of his sandwich. JFK probably couldn’t have thought of one if he’d tried.

At first they ate in half of a comfortable silence. After enough grapes and soft smiles and a bite of his perfectly flaky croissant, JFK found himself chattering back to Vincent’s soft questions. It was surprisingly easy to go to botanical gardens, it turned out. Easy to go on picnics and spend time in the warm sunlight and watch the way Vincent’s hands moved as he got excited. Easy to learn about how Vincent came to the gardens to feel the sun on his face and watch the way it turned the fields yellow, to tell Vincent about how much he’d always wanted to be an outdoorsman camping and backpacking across the nation, to settle into a comfortable chatter of swapped jokes and memories.

The food disappeared faster than it had any right to, and before he knew it Vincent was tearing a page out of his sketchbook and sliding it across the table.

“So, err, what should I draw?” JFK asked, accepting a box of colored pencils.

Vincent shrugged. “Whatever you like. I usually come here to sketch plants, but I might try and draw some elements of that deer from memory. The real Van Gogh was partial to landscapes and still lifes, but he also painted excellent scenes of common people, so I’ve been trying to expand my style repertoire to put a different spin on all of those subjects.”

“That’s, uh—that’s really cool. That you’re, err, trying to be unique like that. I mean, you are unique.”

“Thank you, Jack. I appreciate that.” Vincent had already started sketching away in his notebook, but he looked up to flash JFK another of the smiles he’d been dispensing so freely all day. His hat sat happily on the corner of the table. Without it, light filtered through his eyelashes to illuminate every contour of his face.

JFK choked on his words. He nodded and bent his head back to the sketch paper in front of him to hide the way his face twisted in confused happiness. The hat sat innocently at his elbow, and he began a series of doodles of hats. Top hats, bowler hats, ballcaps, none of them realistic or particularly well-rendered. In the corner he made space for Vincent’s sunhat. Rather than drawing a few rough circles, he found himself actually studying the curves and angles of the hat, trying to copy them down on paper so that the lines fit together.

Eventually, Vincent set down his pencil and began to flip between a few pages of finished rough sketches. “I think I’ll probably paint something I sketched last time I was here; I don’t like to work off of a sketch without going back over it a few times to refine the image. These are nice, though.”

“Can I, err, see ‘em?”

Vincent’s arms thrust the sketchbook toward JFK before he’d even finished the sentence. “Of course! People don’t usually— uh, I mean,” he trailed off, pulling the sketchbook back to his chest, “are you sure you’d like to see it? They’re not very good. Not even compared to my paintings. I, well, often get questions as to what I’m sketching, but people don’t seem to maintain interest once they see them. They really are quite rough.”

“Nah, I’d like to look. If, uh, that’s okay with you.”

“Yes! Of course, yes.” Vincent pressed the book into JFK’s hands.

JFK flipped through the last few pages, making sure to marvel at the broad sketches of leaves and doe eyes out loud so Vincent would understand how much he liked all the little drawings. He really did like them. The fine pencil lines blended in natural flowing rows to form scenes of waving grass and drooping branches. Interspersed with the natural images, Vincent had outlined cartoonish figures of birds and baby deer with wide Disney eyes.

He turned further back in the book and was suddenly presented with a view of himself hard at work across the table. His own coiffed hair flopped over his face, he was sketched bent low to his paper with a pencil in hand, tongue poking out from between his pursed lips. His forehead was furrowed with the same lines as the meadow field, sketching out wrinkles of concentration.

“Is this, err, me?”

With a small yelp, Vincent snatched the notepad back. “M-my apologies! I forgot I had sketched you! It’s just, uh, a portrait study—I want to do my own version of _Portrait of a Woman in Blue_ , but I’m, well, not so skilled with faces, so. I’m sorry. I should have asked. If you prefer, I can always tear it out?”

JFK raised his palms. “Woah there, shortstack. It’s, err, no problem. It’s a nice sketch! You really captured the, uh, hair. And the face. You know I’m no art critic, but I mean, I like it. And I don’t mind. If you do tear it out I wouldn’t mind hanging onto it, though. Might, uh, be nice to keep around as a reminder that, err, this face is art.” He framed his own face with his hands, drawing a nervous laugh from Vincent.

“If you’re sure it’s alright.”

“Sure I’m sure. Seriously, Vinnie. It’s a pretty picture and I’m, err, glad it’s of me. I’d offer to draw you, but seriously, art is not my thing.”

At that, the last of the tension on Vincent’s face slipped away. He set the sketchbook back down on the table and lifted his pencil to amend a detail around JFK’s collar. “You don’t have to be good at everything, Jack. Art isn’t for everyone. I think you’re fantastic enough at the things you do.”

Words welled up in JFK’s throat. Thanks and disagreements and pleas for Vincent to say more sweetly reassuring things. He swallowed. “You, uh, wanna split that pudding cup?”

Vincent shut his sketchbook. “Yes, I actually think I’d like that. Pass me a spoon.”

Behind the garden’s thick bushes and trees, deer rested in beds of leaves and butterflies circled dusky petals. Neither of the boys noticed the movement in the fields around them or the fading afternoon light. Vincent was busy flipping through his sketchbook, showing off forgotten projects to his rapt audience.

JFK was just too focused to notice. If he stopped to look around the garden, he would miss the perfect, constant shifting of Vincent’s soft smile. The rest of the world could wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sorry for the terrible puns, they're stupid dorks and they make each other laugh!! It's been relaxing to work on this fic, but I'm still trying to sort out an update schedule, so enjoy this chapter and look out for another coming (???) some time in the next week. 
> 
> Special thanks to remme for their super-sweet comment, Sinshipsahoy for their attention to detail, Kat for their amazing feedback, and Joshua for pushing me to get this chapter out :)


	4. the mulberry tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vincent gives JFK a gift. His timing isn't perfect, but he's willing to wait.

Vincent tugged the covers over his head. He couldn’t seem to get his stuttering heart under control. Whenever he squeezed his eyes shut, images of JFK played on the panoramic screen at the back of his mind. Early evening light playing in his perfectly coiffed hair, teeth showing in a heart-stopping grin. Vincent knew he should try and push the feeling away; he’d finally made a new friend and he just couldn’t risk ruining it. He was so prone to ruining things.

Still, how was he supposed to feel? They’d had a picnic in the garden and laughed together. JFK liked his art, JFK liked spending time with him, JFK _liked_ him! And JFK was beautiful. Vincent was an artist; he knew what made a face’s proportions appealing. He was also a teenage boy, which meant he knew exactly what his fellow students saw when they gossiped about JFK’s “hot bod”.

Still, it never mattered before. From the very beginning he wrote JFK off as an option for romance, friendship, or even distantly friendly glances in the halls. JFK was a popular jock. That meant, according to all the laws of the high school universe, that he should be a heartless bully. It was so totally unfair to Vincent that the other boy _wasn’t_ just spending time with him as part of some cruel joke. At least, he didn’t seem to be.

JFK was all open smiles and candor with his secrets. He didn’t shy away from emotional conversations, he tried to think critically even about things he didn’t understand, and—in his own, jockish way—he was a bit of a dork.

Vincent could tell that if he didn’t nip things in the bud, soon enough he’d be obsessed with the other boy. That couldn’t happen. He was having so much fun getting to know JFK, having long conversations and sharing bad jokes. He didn’t want to lose that. It was only the side glances, the light blushes, and the lingering smiles that left him so confused.

He knew that JFK not minding Vincent’s sketch of him wasn’t actually a sign of any romantic feeling. Consciously, he knew the fact that JFK was even willing to be friends with him was a lucky break the likes of which Vincent never expected to get from someone perched so high on the social ladder. But what he knew didn’t change how he felt. Knowing his crush was hopeless couldn’t slow his heart or his breath. It definitely couldn’t keep him from feeling equal parts nervous and elated whenever he was around the other boy.

At least it was Saturday. That gave him one day of breathing room before he came face to gorgeous face with JFK again. He could spend the day painting and gardening and trying his damnedest to think only perfectly normal and platonically friendly thoughts about JFK. He could keep himself busy. In fact, the day wasn’t over yet. He could get started on finalizing some of the sketches he made at the garden. Since he spent so much time working on his sketch of JFK, he never actually got around to the canvas, which waited blank-faced and expectant at the foot of his bed.

He shuffled out from under his blankets and paged through his sketchbook. A few of the botanical drawings were serviceable, particularly a tree with spread branches and a cartoonish bird that Vincent thought might stand in well for Van Gogh’s _The Mulberry Tree_. He couldn’t help settling on the page taken up by a close study of JFK’s head and shoulders. His expression of concentration was so sweetly focused.

Though Vincent made up the excuse at the last second, JFK’s pose really did match that of the woman in blue, an Antwerp prostitute who modelled for Van Gogh in earrings and a cross-shaped necklace. In fact, adding a cross necklace and a pair of earrings onto JFK would make for an interesting character contrast.

Vincent found himself adding to the sketch without even thinking about it, detailing lines in the eyes and hair, already visualizing how he would transfer it to a canvas. He had doodled a few other expressions on the back of the page as JFK’s face shifted, and if he blended them he could get something realistic that still mirrored the original painting.

A car door slammed outside. Vincent rushed to the window. His foster mother’s Toyota sat in the driveway. Cornelia was navigating out of it, arms laden with grocery bags, phone pressed between her ear and shoulder. She was probably speaking to a client.

Usually, Vincent would have gone back to his sketches and left her to work. He thought instead of the homey lunches JFK’s fathers packed for him. Down in the front garden, Cornelia paused to admire one of the sunflowers Vincent still tended to.

He looked down at his sketchbook. A quick sketch of JFK’s smiling face looked expectantly up at him, surrounded by other images of the happy boy scribbling away. Vincent wondered what it would take to feel that sort of comfort with himself. He set the book on his desk and hurried down the stairs.

Cornelia was in the kitchen, pulling groceries out of their bags and slotting them away. She waved when Vincent stepped through the doorway.

_I’m on the phone_ , she mouthed, motioning to her ear.

He nodded. Hesitant, he crossed the room to stand beside her and began sorting through the groceries. Often, she didn’t get home early enough to head to the store for them, and he was the one who went shopping. He would put the groceries away alone, cook alone, and eat alone up in his room while he worked on a painting.

“Uh-huh, right, right,” Cornelia droned into her phone. “Great. That sounds great. Listen, Rhonda, I just got home. Can we wrap this up at the meeting tomorrow? Yeah. Uh-huh. Yes, I’ll have it on your desk. Awesome. Can you just email that to me? Okay, great, awesome, bye! Have a good one!”

She hung up and sighed, slumping against the counter. “Sweetheart, you wouldn’t believe how long these people can talk. How are you? I feel like I haven’t even seen you this week. How’s school? How are your friends?”

He shrugged. “Well, I suppose I’m fine. They’re doing all right. School is as expected. You know, always too much homework, never enough time for art. How has your work been?”

“Exhausting. I’m sorry I haven’t been around much, kiddo. The number of projects we’re tackling this quarter is insane. But you know you’re more important than work, right? And if you ever want to spend some time together, I’ll make space for it.”

Vincent nodded. “Yes, I know. Thank you.” They worked in silence for a while, putting groceries away mechanically while Vincent’s mind whirred. Why had he even come downstairs? To lie to his foster mother and take two minutes of work off her hands? He thought of the canvas waiting upstairs by his sketchbook. What would JFK do?

He puffed his chest out a bit and tried to imagine his hair sticking up. Smoothing a hand over the front of his rumpled jean jacket, he pictured it as a fitted red sweater. “Err, actually, can I talk to you about a few things?”

“Of course!” Cornelia turned to face him, leaning back against the counter.

With her full attention focused on him, Vincent felt himself deflate a little. Why worry her? She was already so busy. It wasn’t fair to force his problems on her. _JFK doesn’t mind attention_ , he told himself. _He just says what he wants to say_.

“Um, I- I’ve actually been having some minor issues lately. Not, not with school. I mean, my grades are acceptable, you’ve seen them. Though perhaps with friends at school. That is, I don’t have many. Though I did make a new friend lately! I would like to tell you about him, but, ah, that’s not what I was—”

Cornelia’s face was twisted with concern. He could tell she wanted to interrupt, so he hurried through the rest of his explanation.

“A few months ago, you asked if I would like to see a counselor. And I, well, it’s not—but I would. I have… been feeling unwell. And I would like to speak with someone else about it. I would—if it’s not too much trouble—also like for us to spend a bit more time together. Even just gardening, like we used to. I miss you.”

Her arms wrapped around him. Vincent leaned into her embrace, taking a shaky breath against her shoulder. “Hey, I love you, Vince. And I’m here for you. We’ll find a counselor, okay? I’ll take some time off work. We’ll work on this.”

“Okay,” he murmured, wrapping his own thin arms around her back.

“Thank you for being honest with me. And I want to hear all about that new friend of yours too. But first, maybe you and I could cook some dinner together?”

He pulled back to give her a watery smile. “Yes. I’d like that. Thank you, mom.”

It had been too long since they last cooked together. Vincent couldn’t stop smiling. He and Cornelia shared grins as they shaped and rolled out pasta dough, cooked down a quick tomato sauce, and roasted a salmon filet to share. When they sat down to eat, Vincent cut a fading sunflower from the garden and placed it in a vase on the center of the table.

“That’s beautiful, sweetheart.” Cornelia twirled up a forkful of pasta. “So, tell me all about this new friend of yours.”

* * *

Vincent arrived at school with his canvas wrapped in muslin and tucked under one arm. He was buzzing with nerves. Despite promising himself that he would spend the weekend trying to avoid thinking about JFK, telling his mom about their trip to the garden fired him up to create something, and he spent Saturday night and all of Sunday working on JFK’s portrait. Even in his slightly cartoonish style, working with acrylics, it had taken almost a full day to complete. He really, really hoped the other boy liked it.

The first few class periods couldn’t have passed slower. There was no sign of JFK in the halls, even by his locker, and Vincent resisted the urge to go running around the school until he found him. At least he tried to resist the urge, managing pretty well until lunchtime rolled around. The moment the bell rang he was out if his seat and hurrying to the cafeteria. The tables were full, but JFK was nowhere to be seen. Vincent bounced on the balls of his feet. Was the other boy just running late?

He hustled back to the art room, heart pounding at the idea that maybe JFK had gone looking for him. The room was mostly empty. Monet was dabbing paint on a canvas in one corner. Frida Kahlo and Georgia O’Keefe gossiped over a shared container of take-out. Kahlo waved hello, gesturing to one of the open seats nearby. Vincent waved back and shook his head. He was on a mission.

He made his way back out into the hallway and headed for the quad. Joan and Cleo usually ate together by the pool so Cleo could work on her tan. Maybe Cleo would know where to find JFK, though he was already gnawing his lip with nerves at the idea of asking her.

Vincent rounded the corner and immediately spotted his target.

JFK looked busy. In fact, he looked to be leaning against a locker, making out with Catherine the Great. For a moment, Vincent was seized by the urge to turn around and run away as fast as he possibly could. He promised his foster mom over the weekend that he wouldn’t isolate himself so much, but the art students probably wouldn’t mind him crying in a corner. That would technically make it spending time with other people.

Clutching the canvas tighter to his side, he swallowed the knot in his throat. He knew JFK was a playboy. They could still be friends. Whatever stupid feelings Vincent was developing, it wasn’t JFK’s job to know about them, and he certainly wasn’t likely to reciprocate them. Vincent could curl up into a ball and cry at home in his bed later if he wanted to. He had a painting to deliver.

He was still watching in awkward silence a second later when JFK grabbed Catherine’s shoulders and shoved her away. “What the, err, hell, Cathy? I _told_ you I wasn’t gonna help you win that stupid ‘cutest couple’ thing. And I, err, uh, don’t appreciate that little stunt!”

“Do not tell me the great John F. Kennedy has finally given up on his constant pursuit of fresh tail!” Catherine bellowed, giving him a friendly slap on the shoulder. “I wish to rule the school, JFK. Together, we could be better than _cute_ , we could be great!”

“Yeah, err, that sounds nice and all. I’m not interested.”

She put her hands on her hips and raised one eyebrow. “And why ever not? I know you, JFK. You never say no to an attractive, power-hungry woman.”

He glared at her, shoving his own hands deep into his pockets. “Look, I’ve, err, got other things going on right now, okay? Go find some other total hunk with abs of steel and a heart of gold. This one’s off the, err, free market.”

“So you have got your eye on someone else?” Catherine winked. “Come on, Kennedy. I can keep a secret.”

“No!” JFK flushed an angry red. “I didn’t—I, err, I don’t—look, I don’t hafta tell you anything. Why don’t you just get lost?”

She shrugged. “Whatever you say. I will catch you around, Kennedy. I look forward to meeting this other lucky lady.” Without waiting for his stuttered response, she strode off down the hallway, hips swinging with practiced grace.

Vincent ducked back around the corner. He forced his hand away from his mouth. He’d already bitten his nails down to the skin, any more worrying would have him bleeding again. Part of him wanted to run to Jack—maybe comfort him, even. He was held back by the alarm bell sounding in his brain. Catherine was convinced that JFK was interested in someone. Could she be right? If she was, who was JFK pursuing? Of course, Catherine just assumed it was a girl, but JFK hadn’t argued. Was he still in love with Cleo? Was he interested in some other hot popular girl, like Monroe?

Also, he reasoned, JFK seemed more upset than usual. That didn’t bode well for heartfelt conversation. Knowing his luck, JFK would drop the façade of kindness once and for all and snap the canvas in half before shoving Vincent into the nearest locker.

Vincent listened out for movement in the hallway. It sounded empty, so he sighed and rounded the corner. A speeding figure slammed into his shoulder. Vincent fumbled the canvas, letting out a gasp as his legs buckled under him. He braced for impact with the floor. Even if he slammed into the hallway tiles, he couldn’t risk letting go of the painting and letting it be crushed under his weight.

An arm wrapped around his middle, breaking his fall and gently pulling him back up to standing. He blinked his eyes open and found himself standing face very close to face with JFK.

“O-oh! Hello, Jack. My apologies. Are you alright?” He didn’t even want to think about how red his face was. JFK literally swept him off his feet in a romantic catch fit for an over-dramatic Hollywood teen movie, and Vincent’s eyes were closed the whole time.

JFK ran a hand through his unfairly perfect hair and gave Vincent a weak grin. “Yeah, peachy. Been a long day, shortstack. Sorry for knocking you over. You, err, holding up okay?”

“Yes, thank you. I’m fine.”

“I was, err, uh, looking for you earlier. Thought maybe we could eat lunch together.” He shrugged. “It’s getting a bit late, though.”

“Oh!” A genuine smile tugged at Vincent’s lips. “That’s very thoughtful of you. I would love to eat together. If you’re still interested, that is.”

JFK relaxed. He let his hands slip out of his pockets to hang by his sides. “Cool. Wanna show me what you’ve been, uh, painting? You can tell me about it while I, err, find us somewhere to sit.”

_Don’t blush again_ , Vincent warned himself, already blushing. “O-oh. Would you like to see? It’s actually—well, I was looking for you as well. To show it to you.”

“Hey! Now I’ve, err, gotta see it.” JFK’s warm grin was back.

Vincent knew he was pushing his luck, but in that moment he couldn’t imagine JFK reaching for cruelty. At worst he wouldn’t like the painting. That was okay. Vincent had tried to give portraits as gifts before. Sometimes they weren’t well-received, and that was just fine. He tried to tell himself it wouldn’t crush him if JFK rejected the gift. At best, maybe he could relieve some of the other boy’s stress with an impromptu tribute.

He tugged away the muslin covering and presented the canvas face down. “Turn it over?”

JFK reached out. Their hands brushed as he accepted the canvas, and Vincent held in a small, deeply embarrassing gasp. He turned the painting over.

Vincent had never seen the other boy’s gorgeous green eyes so wide. JFK’s mouth fell open a little as he stared down at the image of himself, bent over his work, mulberry trees twisting up into the sky behind him. A stylized deer pranced across one corner of the canvas.

“So,” Vincent squeaked, “what do you think? It’s quite alright if you don’t like it.”

There was a moment of painful silence.

“It’s beautiful.” JFK looked at Vincent with what might have been the beginning of tears shining in his eyes. “This—now _this_ is fine art, Vinnie. I, err, uh, don’t know if I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful.”

Vincent snorted. “You look into the mirror ever morning, don’t you?”

JFK blinked down at him and Vincent realized that what he’d meant as a joke about vanity probably came across as flirting. He swallowed. JFK had been so angry at Catherine just a minute before for coming on to him. What if he directed that anger at Vincent?

Instead, JFK coughed and nudged Vincent’s shoulder with his elbow. “Yeah. And, I, err, uh, am looking at your face right now. Or whatever. Let’s, uh, go find some place to eat, all right? Dad packed two sandwiches today, so I’ve, err, got spare.”

“Sure,” Vincent breathed, losing the battle against a full-body flush. “In fact, I have a packed lunch as well. I suggest a trade.”

One of JFK’s arms looped around his shoulder. It fit so naturally that for the first few moments Vincent wasn’t surprised, he just leaned into the touch with a pleased smile.

“Works for me, shortstack. You lead the way.”

They headed down the hallway with Vincent tucked against JFK’s side. His eyes landed on a crumpled flyer taped to the wall. _Fall Prom_ , it declared, _the biggest thing since Homecoming Prom_! Normally, the reminder of his many school dances alone would lodge something sharp in Vincent’s chest.

Instead he tilted closer to JFK. He had more important things on his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another week, another nickel B) Big thanks to all those continuing to read and comment!! Special thanks to Love_Joan for their effusive praise, tomatogrillcheese for their delicious name and frequent comments, Jos PanTostado for appreciating my bad puns, and Terror_And_Dreams for always crying. I'll see y'all next week for more JFGogh brain rot!!


	5. the schoolboy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JFK has a brilliant idea. When that one falls through, he has a second brilliant idea! One can only come up with so many brilliant ideas before night falls.

JFK stared down at his plate. The chicken thighs and mashed potatoes didn’t respond to his detached gaze or a low sigh. His dad, on the other hand, noticed after about thirty seconds that JFK wasn’t already digging into his meal with the ferocity of a starved animal.

“Hey, baby,” Wally asked, setting down his fork, “are you feeling okay?”

“Err, yeah. I’m fine. Just, uh, got a lot to think about today.”

“Whatcha thinking about?” Carl asked through a mouthful of green beans.

Wally reached out to cover JFK’s hand with his. He squeezed softly, his calloused fingertips reassuringly familiar. “You know you can talk to us about anything, sweetheart. Is it any sort of trouble at school? You don’t usually stress about your grades, but the offer to find you a tutor is always open. Or is something wrong with one of your school friends? Are you having… girl problems?”

Carl snorted, but didn’t comment.

“Nah. Actually, I, err, uh, made a new friend. And, uh. He’s been on my mind a lot lately.”

“He?” Carl asked, raising a suggestive eyebrow.

Wally patted his shoulder. “Come on, darling. Not every kid is as boy-crazy as you were back in high school. But JFK, I’m so proud of you! Making new friends is wonderful. What’s got you thinking so hard about it?”

A blush spread up the back of JFK’s neck. “No, I—well, it’s—I, err, uh, don’t really know how to say this. Maybe pops is… right?”

Carl’s fork clattered to the table. “You mean it, son? You—you think you might be following in your old man’s foosteps?”

“Carl!” Wally chided. “We’ve talked about this! That kind of pressure isn’t healthy for a young boy.” He turned back to JFK, a soft smile on his face. “Listen, baby, you know your papa and I love you whether you’re gay, straight, or anything in between or sideways. How ever you identify, you’re still our baby. And we love you.”

JFK resisted the urge to gag at the outpouring of mushy sentiment. “You’re, err, embarrassing me, dad! But look—thanks. I know. And I, uh, love you guys too.”

“I know there’s some things boys your age just don’t like to talk about with their parents, but you know we’re always here for you if you need a pair of listening ears. Or we could get a counselor! Whatever’s going on with your friend—whether it’s a budding youthful romance or not—” he added, letting out a soft laugh, “you’re a good man, JFK. And I just know you’ll handle it the right way.”

“All right, all right, let the kid eat in peace.” Carl dug back into his plate. “Just know that if you do date this friend of yours, you’d better bring him home to meet your old men.”

JFK rolled his eyes. “Ugh, pops! I’m, err, eating here!” He hid his wobbly smile with a forkful of mashed potatoes.

After dinner, JFK retreated to his room. He’d hidden the portrait upstairs right after arriving home from school. With the door locked against his dads’ caring curiosity, he examined the painting. He’d been telling Vincent the truth. It was beautiful—more beautiful than JFK could ever remember himself looking. And he was a good-looking guy!

_The Schoolboy_ , Vincent had scrawled on the back, _portrait of the artist’s friend_.

He smiled at the inscription. Glancing between the portrait and the mirror beside his desk, he tried to align his features. The face staring back at him from the canvas was clearly his. There was just this light behind it—sparkling in his eyes and glowing from his painted cheeks—that was a little unfamiliar.

Was that what Vincent saw when he looked at JFK? Was that how JFK looked when he was around Vincent? JFK rested his head in his hands. Ever since their picnic in the garden, he’d been thinking, ideas bouncing around his skull like balls in a US-history-themed pinball machine.

He liked spending time with Vincent. _Bonus!_ He wants to spend more time with Vincent. _Skillshot!_ He wants to get to know Vincent better. _Ding!_ In fact, he wants to be better friends with Vincent. _Multiball!_ Maybe best friends. _Combo!_ Maybe… more than friends? _JACKPOT!_

Then there’d been the incident of bumping into Vincent in the hallway. It had been so cheesily romantic to sweep the other boy off his feet. JFK still remembered the comforting weight of Vincent in his arms, his freckled face wrinkled with worry, eyes clenched tight to brace for a fall. But JFK had been there to catch him. He couldn’t remember the last time he was more proud of his strong arms.

He hoped Vincent hadn’t overheard his conversation with Catherine the Great. It was embarrassing enough to be turning down hot babes without the _reason_ he was having trouble saying yes appearing from around the corner.

At first, JFK just turned Monroe down because he really wasn’t interested in vying for the title of cutest couple. He’d had his share of high school celebrity while dating Cleo. That relationship ended badly enough, with Cleo choosing Abe over him _despite_ his washboard abs. Even their later split, followed by Joan and Cleo getting together, hadn’t washed away the bitterness of being passed over. Cleo was _his_ girl. Sure, he hadn’t always been faithful to her, but they’d had their agreements and their boundaries. She was the one who got to move on.

Usually, once the invitations from Clone High’s most eligible women started pouring in, he would have given in and let himself be swept into a whirlwind romance with whichever hot broad was closest to his grasping hands. Since getting to know Vincent, things had been different.

Cleo was the first girl who made JFK… feel things. Soft, warm things; things that fluttered in his chest and lit the world in rays of golden sunlight when they were together. She made him feel cold things, too. Sharp things that collected in his stomach and cut into him when he tried to breathe freely around her. It wasn’t fair, he thought, to learn to feel so many things at once. Sometimes feeling things hurt. He needed time to pick them apart, to apply them in different ways to different people.

Time he didn’t get when Cleo ditched him for Lincoln. He knew there was no use resenting her. He’d been a bad partner, and so had Abe. He was glad Cleo and Joan found each other. It was just hard to be thrown so suddenly from that whirlwind of emotion into mourning for Ponce. Having to watch his first love make out with her new boyfriend while he whimpered in the backseat, no other friends to turn to.

Then came Vincent. A new friend; a new start. JFK didn’t want to push the guy away. Still—there were things he meant to say to Ponce. Things he never got to say, and never got to hear said back. He didn’t want to have any regrets when it came to Vincent.

He pulled a balled-up paper from his pocket. He snatched the flyer out of Anne Boleyn’s hand when she propositioned him after class, growling at her that he didn’t want to make a scene at Fall Prom just to get her a yearbook photoshoot. Did he want to go to prom at all? Yeah, he did. He loved dancing, he loved free food, he loved parties, and he loved looking good. For once, he just wanted to do it with someone who made him feel something.

Someone like Vincent. He reached out to trail his fingers down his own painted face. It was true. Van Gogh was adorable, shy and creative, feisty in all the right ways. He laughed at JFK’s jokes and didn’t mind when he said something stupid. The way Vincent said _Jack_ sent honey oozing down his throat.

He wanted to hold the guy’s hand, dammit! Was that so much to ask?

_It might be. It might be too much for Vincent. It might mean losing another friend and being left behind again and being passed over because you’re still not good enough, never as good as the_ real _JFK. He might mock you. When the rest of the school finds out, they might hate you. They don’t make fun of your dads because they’re_ your _dads, but if they knew you were gay too, they might start. They might never accept you._

JFK hit that nasty mental voice square in its imaginary face with a good heavy metaphorical punch. The other students had no problem accepting Cleo and Joan. Yeah, some of them were a bit creepy about it, but for the most part they had bigger things to worry about and bigger losers to torment. It took less than a day for the school to completely forget Abe and Gandhi’s very public make-out session. And he was _JFK_ , not Gandhi. He ruled the school.

That didn’t mean Vincent would accept him as easily. Still, they’d been getting along so well. Vincent definitely knew JFK’s playboy reputation. If he said no, JFK could just play it off as a casual curiosity, and they would move on just fine. If he said yes, JFK would have plenty of time to prove how he felt. Satisfied with his own brilliant solution, JFK shut his brain off for the night and threw himself into video games.

Still, every once in a while, he couldn’t help glancing over at Vincent’s portrait. He could imagine the other boy’s slim fingers painting careful brush strokes across the canvas, staring at a sketched reference of JFK’s face. In a weird way, it felt like they’d made the painting together. To JFK, that was what made it a really pretty picture.

* * *

JFK didn’t spot Vincent right away at school the next morning. That was no problem. He could be patient if he had to be. Besides, he needed some time to consider how his promposal would play out. He’d never really liked the flashy performances guys were expected to put on for girls. He wasn’t much of an artist, but that morning he’d dug up some old craft paints to doodle a little sign. A small bouquet of sunflowers bought on his way to school was nestled into his backpack.

He would find Vincent at lunch and bring prom up casually. If Vincent seemed into the idea, he would present the other boy with flowers and the card. On it, JFK wrote “We’d make a real pretty picture at Fall Prom!” It hinted at the romantic, but if worst came to worst, he could play it off as a little gag between bros. Vincent would accept that, right? JFK knew he was smart—maybe too smart for JFK to lie to his face. Still, nobody else seemed to be lining up to ask the shortstack to prom. He’d probably be flattered, even if he did say no.

Class passed in a flood of molasses. Minutes dragged by, bogged down in the sticky-sweet air. Mr. Sheepman droned at the front of the class. JFK’s eyes roamed the board, unfocused, while he mentally conjured images of Vincent’s blushing face. Man, he would look so cute when JFK asked him.

The bell startled him out of his daydreams and into action. He threw on his backpack, ignoring the tail-end of Mr. Sheepman’s drawn-out lecture, and jogged out into the halls to find Vincent. He spotted a flash of red hair in the quad. His face broke into a broad smile. He was about to dash over to the other boy’s side when a low rumble sounded all through the open space.

He spun around to see an ornate golden chariot rumbling toward him, pulled by two upperclassmen in bronze armor. Helen of Troy reclined in the chariot, her white gown draped and pooling around her feet. Fabric glistened in the afternoon light. A halo of gold shone around her head. Dramatic trumpet music sounded from nowhere in particular.

Her chariot drew to a halt right in front of JFK. One of the boys helped her down from it while the other held up the folds of her gown. She stepped toward him, reaching a hand into her gown and drawing out a shining golden apple. It sparkled alluringly. “John F. Kennedy,” she pronounced, voice solemn, “this golden apple is a token from the gods. Inscribed ‘to the fairest’, it is that very apple for which Aphrodite gave Helen over to Paris as his wife.”

JFK nodded, trying to keep an eye on Vincent over her shoulder. It was getting difficult as students crowded around to watch the display “Uh, nice?”

“As a paragon of beauty the likes of which ancient Greek sculptors would have depicted in the form of mighty Adonis, I offer this apple to you, thereby decreeing you the fairest of the men at this academy of learning.”

Generally, JFK liked awards. He especially liked the sound of an award recognizing his sculpted bod. Still, it wasn’t exactly normal for students to go around bestowing apples on each other. “Thanks. Can I, err, ask why you’re giving me fruit?”

Helen dropped to her knees, apple balanced on her outstretched supplicating palms. “John, I ask that you do me the honor of attending the Fall Prom at my side. We shall be the fairest of all pairs.”

His heart stuttered in his chest. He hadn’t been expecting that. Sure, plenty of girls hinted—or with that yearbook superlative on the line, flat our said—they wanted him to take them to the prom. But no girl had ever actually made him a promposal! It was—well, it was different. It should have been nice. He should have felt honored and attractive and surrounded by the positive attention of his classmates.

He didn’t, though, and the reason why was poking his head around the shoulder of another classmate to wait wide-eyed for JFK’s response. Their glances met. Vincent’s sea-green eyes were full of a heady mix of curiosity and disappointment. JFK’s stomach no longer felt full of the butterflies of anticipation. Instead it was loaded down with heavy stones, worries and regrets that rooted him to the spot.

Heart in his throat, he looked down at Helen of Troy and willed his brain to _work_ for once. To come up with something clever and admirable that would solve his problems. He didn’t want to hurt people—he just wanted to make himself happy. Why were those things always at odds?

Finally, he cleared his throat. “I, uh, appreciate the, err, compliment. And, uh, you’re definitely a fair lady. A real swell broad. Which is why, uh, I think you should keep the apple.”

Helen looked up at him with her eyes narrowed.

“I mean, I, uh, would go with you. I’m sure anyone would be—err—honored? It’s just that I, uh, well, I’m—”

The eyes of his classmates fixed on him. JFK was sweating, beads rolling down the back of his neck, soaking the collar of his white shirt. He swallowed. The tension in his throat refused to clear, and he swallowed again.

“You’re…?” Helen prompted, rocking back onto her heels to stare up at him, arms crossed. She clutched the apple in one hand.

“I’m—uh—not going to prom!” Murmurs swelled through the crowd in response. Thankfully, they were curious rather than judgmental. “Right. I’ve, err, uh, got other plans that night. So… can’t go with you! But, uh, thanks for asking. You’re a real… sweetheart.”

Helen heaved herself back to her feet with a shrug. “Well, I appreciate your time. It pains me that we will be unable to attend the dance together, but—” she winked at one of the older boys drawing her chariot— “I’m sure there will be other takers.”

The crowd dispersed slowly. Students chattered about prom and who Helen might ask and what JFK would be doing instead, but with the scene dissolving, most seemed ready to forget it ever happened. JFK scanned the melting crowd for Vincent.

The other boy didn’t seem to be anywhere. JFK’s shoulders slumped forward. He’d missed him again. It was a good thing Vincent hadn’t witnessed him _agreeing_ to Helen’s proposal, but now the other boy thought JFK wasn’t attending the dance at all. What would he think if JFK asked him? He could just explain why he lied, but that wouldn’t make for a very fun conversation.

_Oh, Helen? Yeah, I, err, totally lied. I was, uh, too embarrassed to turn her down in front of the whole school. But, err, don’t worry! I totally won’t be too scared to attend prom with another boy._

Not very convincing, even in his own head. JFK thumped his chest with a fist. He wasn’t just checking in on the toning of his pecs—he needed to conjure up all of his usual confidence. So he’d messed up his original plan. So what? He could just tell Vincent he’d changed his mind about going to the dance, and since that promposal got him thinking about attending, he’d like to go with Vincent! Or he could just ask and assume the little dude would be too busy swooning to ask hard questions.

With his chest puffed out, he marched down the hallway toward the art room, hoping to catch Vincent in the hall. He pulled the flowers out of his bag to make sure they wouldn’t wilt too badly before he reached Vincent. A few petals were already crushed, but they looked pretty cheery.

It took a few minutes of wandering to locate the other boy. JFK found Vincent leaning against a locker, nodding along to something Gandhi was saying. JFK was about to interrupt—after all, what he had to ask Vincent was probably more important—when Gandhi said _tuxedo!_ loud enough to stop him in his tracks. He waited just around the corner, trying to figure out what they were discussing.

“And you’re definitely down to chip in for the hotel, right?” Gandhi asked. “It shouldn’t be too pricey, especially if we cut other costs. I found a place that will rent out matching white three-piece suits!”

Vincent shrugged. “Not really my color, but I suppose I could contribute to a hotel room.”

“Come on, it’ll be fun! Trust me, this is gonna be the second-best night of our lives, right after Winter Prom. And we’ll cap it off with a totally banging after-party! You’ll come, right?”

“I have nobody else to attend with,” Vincent sighed, “so I suppose I might as well.”

JFK stared down at the bouquet of half-wilted flowers in his hand. The feeling twisting in his chest was familiar. He didn’t like it very much at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy everyone!! Thanks for reading and commenting, it always brings a smile to my face. 
> 
> This chapter goes out to Cai, who drew the first piece of [fanart](https://www.instagram.com/p/CHyk80qBkqm/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link) I've ever received for a fic!! Their rendition of Vincent's picnic outfit is beautiful and I'm obsessed with it, go check it out at that link and support them :))
> 
> Special thanks also to OzzEmerald for their super-charged kudos and squawkietalkie for their well-received kudos! Big shout out as always to the recurring commenter squad: I post because I love y'all.
> 
> Speaking of posting, I wanted to announce that updates will be a bit more sporadic from now on. I won't be taking too long of a hiatus, but the Winter holiday season means it's time to buckle down on original writing-- including some gifts for friends-- so I won't have as much time to devote to this fic. Look forward to updates definitely coming in the future! Just not on the usual weekly basis. Thank you all for reading, and I'll catch you next chapter <3


	6. portrait of dr. gachet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vincent gets a bit of painting done and meets the family.

Vincent sat up in his room alone, as per usual, and considered bawling his eyes out, as per usual. He just didn’t know what to _do_ about JFK. Things had been so weird since Helen’s promposal. It wasn’t that JFK was rude or dismissive—he was still achingly kind to Vincent—it was just that the other boy never met Vincent’s eyes anymore. He just curled in on himself and went through the motions of school.

Vincent was used to being ignored and overlooked. It didn’t hurt him so badly anymore, really. A few of the art kids were willing to speak to him at school. He always had his art to keep him company. His foster mother was kind, he had enough to eat, most of the popular kids didn’t notice him enough to really bully him. He wasn’t content, but he was okay.

Things were supposed to be different for JFK. His natural place was at the center of attention, surrounded by throngs of adoring students, joking and boasting and generally making a fool of himself. JFK was meant to be celebrated and loved. He was Clone High’s golden boy. And he made Vincent feel like, for once, he was worth paying attention to as well.

Vincent felt like that part of JFK was slipping away from him. He was always so stressed, running off a few minutes into a conversation to attend to “important, err, things, uh, somewhere else” or losing his train of thought when Vincent asked how he was feeling.

He knew he had no right to police how JFK acted. They were friends—at least, Vincent truly hoped they were—but JFK had other friends. Better, closer friends, who probably understood exactly why he was behaving so strangely. JFK probably had a hundred people to confide in.

What was more, at the bottom of it all, Vincent knew he was probably projecting his own bottled-up emotions onto JFK. He himself felt jittery whenever they spoke. Part of him was always getting overwhelmed by the other boy’s gorgeous face or smooth speech and trying to force the rest of him to turn tail and run at top speed for a closet to hyperventilate in. He was the one who was withdrawn, the one lacking friends to confide in outside of Joan’s risky hotline, the one struggling to act as if everything was normal between them.

A gentle knock came on his bedroom door. “Hey, kiddo,” Cornelia called through the door, “can I come in? Or do you want some space right now?”

“Come in,” he replied, surprised by how rough his own voice echoed in his ears.

She eased the door open and entered, holding out a plate of apple slices and peanut butter. “A snack for the starving artist?”

Vincent couldn’t help a small smile. “Thank you. I appreciate the gesture very much.”

“Kind of my job, sweetheart. Anything on your mind? You’ve been cooped up in here all afternoon. Pretty sure the sunflowers miss you.”

He scooted up toward the pillows so she could take a seat at the foot of his bed. “Yes, well. I suppose I’m a bit worried about that friend I mentioned to you. And, uh—some of my own feelings. I’m not quite sure. There’s just been a great deal to think about, as of late.”

“I know how that feels.” She snagged an apple slice and popped it into her mouth. “Not to throw something else onto your plate, but an email just went out to all the parents about buying tickets for the Fall Prom. Should I be thinking about that? Are you planning to go?”

Vincent clutched at his blanket, balling the fabric up in his fists. “I’m not sure. I—I think I would perhaps like to. I do have tentative plans to go with… friends? There was someone I was considering asking to go with me. But it appears that they aren’t planning to attend the dance at all.”

“Ooh, bad luck there. Have you thought about asking them to do something else?”

“Something else?” Vincent bit his lip. Did his foster mother mean to ask him on a date? Did asking JFK on that picnic count as something else?

“Yeah, you know. My high school only had one prom, at the end of the year, but I would have been super sad if I had to miss it. Even if your friend isn’t attending because dances aren’t their scene, I’m sure they’d appreciate having a special event to mark with you. You guys could have your own little dressed-up dance or dinner. Maybe invite a few friends along?”

“I suppose I would enjoy that. But I don’t want them to feel pressured. Or to, ah, dislike me? I mean—we’re friends. What if they feel uncomfortable?”

She shrugged. “I went to my Junior Prom with a friend. It’s not like you’re asking them for their hand in marriage, kiddo. It doesn’t even have to be a date. You just want to share a special event with them. Worst case scenario they say no. If they’re a good friend, I trust you both not to make things too awkward.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Vincent murmured, already beginning to formulate a proposal.

Cornelia raised one eyebrow. “Feel like telling me which friend of yours you were thinking of asking? Is it that JFK kid?”

“Mom!” Vincent whined, face immediately flushing. “I never said that! I-if they say yes, I suppose you could meet them. Maybe they could, uh, come here to pick me up?”

She beamed at him. “I’d love that, kiddo. Thanks for keeping your boring old mom in the loop.”

* * *

Vincent inspected his portrait in progress. It was another cartoonish rendition of JFK, this one more abstract, as it was rendered from memory. Modelled after the _Portrait of Dr. Gachet_ , it showed JFK wearing a tailored tuxedo. On the back, in lieu of a title, Vincent scrawled _Portrait of a Possible Prom_. At first, he wrote _Date_ at the end without thinking, but a few hard strokes of the eraser and some white paint rendered that suitably invisible.

In the few days it took him to put the piece together, JFK faded in and out. Some days he was as cheery and bold as Vincent was used to, joking around and throwing his arm casually around Vincent’s shoulder, only to suddenly retreat into himself and shove his hands deep into the dark pits of his pockets. While it was reassuring to know that JFK still wanted them to spend time together, Vincent grew more and more anxious about his proposal.

He was beginning to suspect that JFK’s discomfort had something to with him. After all, nobody else seemed to notice the brash boy’s sudden change in attitude. If it was associated with Vincent, odds were good that it was all his fault. It would be terribly rude of him to ask JFK to go out with him—even as friends—if the other boy struggled just to be around him.

Still, he finished the painting. Once it was finished it would have been a terrible waste to throw away.

He ended up working himself into a panic on JFK’s doorstep, small canvas clutched to his chest, a single red and white rose in one hand. Maybe it was too much, but he knew if someone were to ever prompose to him he would want to receive flowers.

After a careful knock on the door, he stepped back to straighten out his shirt. He got dressed that morning wanting to look his best for JFK. His laced-up yellow shoes highlighted the stars and moon on his shirt, a button-down patterned after Van Gogh’s _The_ _Starry Night_. Instead of his usual oversized jacket he wore a fitted cream cardigan. He didn’t usually dress up for school, so he hoped JFK would like it. He hoped JFK would like _him_. He hoped that the proposal wouldn’t ruin their friendship, and he really, really hoped—

A man with long braided hair and a wide smile opened the door. “Well, hello there! Are you one of JFK’s friends from school?”

Vincent tried to hide the flower behind his back. He really hadn’t expected JFK’s dad to be the one to open the door, though he probably should have planned for it. “Ah! Y-yes. My name is Vincent van Gogh, it’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. I’m here to see him, actually. Is he home right now?”

“Well, aren’t you polite!” JFK’s dad chuckled, pressing one hand to his chest. “Nice to meet you, Vincent. Call me Wally. Come on in, JFK should be upstairs in his bedroom right now.”

“Oh, thank you!” Vincent shuffled past Wally into the house and glanced around. JFK’s home way cozy. There was a living room, with a box TV set and a plush couch. A balding man with some impressive tattoos lay stretched out on the couch, snoring quietly under what looked like a hand-stitched quilt.

“Don’t worry about waking Carl up,” Wally reassured Vincent, heading for the stairs. “He’s a heavy sleeper.”

Vincent peeked into the kitchen as they passed it. It was warm too, all natural wood, with a gas stove and a long dining table. He could imagine JFK’s little family sitting down for dinner together in the evening. It made something twist in his chest. Not painfully, just—there. A feeling that twinged near his heart and lungs at the idea of a family dinner.

He and Cornelia had been spending more time together lately. Vincent was grateful for that; he knew how busy she was with work. But, well, her best efforts couldn’t prevent her from having to focus on her projects and meetings and portfolios sometimes. They still weren’t able to schedule an appointment for him with a doctor. Her insurance wasn’t very good, which Vincent worried might make it hard for them to find a therapist they could afford.

He wondered what it might be like to sit at a dinner table with a big family. With JFK, even. He brushed those thoughts aside as he joined Wally at the top of the stairs. A shared dinner with Cornelia every few days and time in the garden once in a while was much better than what he’d had before.

Wally knocked on JFK’s door and called through to him. “Hey, baby! Your favorite dad is back again.”

“I, err, haven’t finished the cookies yet, dad. I’m working on some, err, stuff.”

“There’s someone here to see you.” Wally put his hands on Vincent’s shoulders and marched him up to meet the door. “I’m headed back downstairs to get a start on dinner, so you better let him in.”

True to his word, he flashed Vincent a cherry thumbs-up and hustled back down to the kitchen, leaving Vincent staring at the sticker plaque adorning JFK’s bedroom. _The Oval Office_.

The door swung open, revealing JFK in a in a tank-top and sweats, his hair unstyled and brushed back loose from his face.

“Hi, Jack,” Vincent murmured, holding his canvas in front of him like a shield. He tried not to stare too long at JFK’s toned arms or the swathe of chest revealed by the low-cut tank. He was trying to be a gentleman and court the other boy properly. It was hardly polite to drool over him.

JFK gaped at Vincent. “Hey! Shortstack! I, err, didn’t expect to see you over here. Uhh. Sorry about, err, my dad. He can be a lot.”

“No, not at all! Your parents seem lovely. May I come in?”

He stepped aside to let Vincent in, running a hand through his wavy brown hair. “Sure. It’s, uh, good to see you, Vinnie. Sorry about the mess. If I knew you were coming over, I, err, uh, would have cleaned up the place. And, uh, also gotten me cleaned up. You look… real nice, speaking of which.”

Vincent flushed, pleased that his outfit made an impact. “Thank you, Jack.” He glanced around the room. An American flag was pinned to the wall, alongside posters of classic rock and country bands and a few glossy photos of sports cars. A small portrait of the original JFK sat in a frame on Jack’s desk. Hung up on the wall above it was the portrait Vincent painted. “I actually came over to ask you something, so I don’t know that this visit will take very long.”

“Sure, what’s up?”

For a moment, Vincent froze. He had planned out his materials down to the last detail, but when it came to actually executing the proposal, he wasn’t really sure what to do. Should he drop down to one knee and ask for JFK’s hand in dance attendance? Just pass JFK the painting and hope he got the message?

He settled for somewhere in the middle and held out the rose, still proud of having found one with its tips dyed red. It wasn’t exactly like JFK’s sweater, but he hoped the thought would be clear. More than that, he hoped JFK liked it. It was a bit hard to tell looking at the other boy’s face just then. On the one hand, he certainly looked—struck. But he also wasn’t smiling or saying anything or taking it out of Vincent’s hand, and honestly Vincent was starting to feel a good bit more nervous than he had before.

“Uh, this is for you, Jack,” he said, hoping that clarifying things would somehow jolt JFK into action.

Though the other boy didn’t reply, he did take the flower. He raised it to his face and took a shaky breath in.

Vincent removed the canvas’s wrapping and held it out face down. “So—I have a question for you. Please don’t feel as if it’s a big deal, or that I’m pressuring you to respond in any way, or that—well, anyway, I had a thought. I suppose I should just get on with it.” He flipped the canvas, revealing his portrait of JFK in a suit, the same red and white rose tucked into one of his buttonholes. “JFK, will you go somewhere with me? Not necessarily to prom—I know you told Helen you were busy that day, and I respect your time—but somewhere special. I’d like to celebrate the end of the season with you. If that’s all right.”

JFK stared at him. Slowly, he reached out to take the canvas, looking down at it with the same wonder he’d shown the first portrait Vincent did of him. “Wow. I—err—I don’t know what to say, Vinnie. This is beautiful.” He smiled down at the rose in his other hand. Suddenly, his eyes widened, and his head snapped back up. “No, wait, I do know what to say! Err, yes! Yeah, Vinnie, I’d love to do something special with you. In fact, uh, I wasn’t planning on going to prom when Helen asked me. But you know what? I think I, uh, feel different about it now. Since I’ll be going with you.”

Beaming up at the other boy, both of their eyes sparkling with excitement, Vincent was seized by the sudden desire to grab JFK by the shirt and just kiss him. But he couldn’t. Yes, going to the prom together was a step forward, but he didn’t even know if JFK liked him as more than a friend. He couldn’t rush things.

JFK set the canvas down gently on his desk, resting the rose on top of it. He turned back to Vincent with a sly grin. In a sweeping motion, he grabbed Vincent off the floor and pulled him into his arms, spinning in a circle to swing the smaller boy through the air. Vincent squealed in heady, nervous joy as JFK whirled him around. He was set down on the floor with care and felt JFK’s arms wrap tighter around his shoulders.

The taller boy buried his face in the crook of Vincent’s neck, squeezing him close. “Thanks for asking me, Vinnie. I’m real excited.”

In answer, Vincent wrapped his arms around JFK’s waist and held on tight. He rested his chin on top of JFK’s head. His lips were bent in a permanent smile. “Me too, Jack. I can’t wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to tomatogrillcheese, who drew the cutest JFK and Vincent based on Vincent's outfit description a few chapters ago!! Check it out [here](https://cottageclone.tumblr.com/post/634879676468412416/anyways-read-alone-in-my-bedroom-at-arles-) and give them some love because I *adore* it <3 I'm so excited this fic has been getting some art, thank you to tomatogrillcheese and Cai for their awesome pieces. And thanks to all of you who keep commenting!! It keeps me going on this fic when I'm busy with other projects.


	7. landscape at overs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JFK and Vincent get to know each other better.

JFK watched with a soft smile on his face as Vincent unpacked his lunch. The smaller boy was grinning so brightly, showing off every carefully wrapped element.

“And my mother reminded me that we still had some quince paste left over from dinner the other night, but I was running a bit late by then, so she packed me up a small jar of it! She suggested we could share. Would you like to try some?”

He let out a sigh and settled back against the tree he was leaning on. “Uh, sure. Why not? I think I’ve got some apple slices in my bag. Could you, err, grab ‘em for me?”

Vincent opened up JFK’s backpack and delicately sifted through its contents. “I don’t see a bag in here, Jack. What is your lunch packed in?”

JFK made a grabbing motion with his outstretched hands. Vincent giggled and tossed him the bag. When he caught it, JFK made a show of cheering for himself, pumping his fist and chanting under his breath. Vincent collapsed back into the grass in a fit of laughter, a cheerful flush coloring his face and highlighting each of his freckles.

“Don’t you, err, get any grass stains on those bandages, shortstack.” JFK opened up his bag and rummaged through textbooks (defaced with Vincent’s name and gratuitous hearts) notebooks (with their class conversations scribbled in the margins) and a few spare art supplies he carried in case Vincent had a sketch idea too far from the art room.

His forehead furrowed. “I, err, can’t find it either.” Turning the back upside down, he let a shower of books and pencils rain into the grass. No brown paper bag rewarded his search. “Damn. Must’ve left it at home. Ah well, you think that, err, keens paste is any good plain?”

Vincent snorted. “Quince, Jack. Quince. And probably—but, well, we could always share my lunch instead. If you like.” He gave JFK a sweet smile from under the brim of his straw bonnet. A sky-blue ribbon was wrapped around the brim.

JFK had never seen Vincent in a skirt before, but he was liking the view. It was a pastel yellow, just like the long-sleeved button down tucked into the waistband. The fabric flowed loosely over Vincent’s outstretched legs.

“Jack?”

“Oh, I, err, uh—” JFK stammered, pulling his eyes and mind away from Vincent’s outfit, “yeah, if you don’t mind it. I’d, uh, love to share. Maybe I’ll return the favor next time.”

Vincent dug into the neat box packed with his food. “We’ve shared before, remember? You split a sandwich with me. The first time we ever ate together.”

A grin spread across JFK’s face. “Oh! Err, yeah, we did! I’m surprised you remember that, Vinnie.”

“Yes, it has been some time since then. I realize it was a small gesture. It simply meant a lot to me.” He twisted his fingers together, still smiling. “I am glad we’ve gotten to know each other better since then.”

“Yeah? Well, you, uh, mean a lot to me. And I’m glad too.” JFK felt a bit cheesy, but it was worth it to see the blush spread up to the tips of Vincent’s ears.

He held his hand out wordlessly to pass JFK a bunch of red grapes and a slice of bread with soft cheese spread across it. Humming a soft tune, he poked through the box, finally pulling out a little pot of light red jam. “There you are.” His voice was a bit shaky, but he passed the jar to JFK along with a plastic knife.

JFK spread some of the funny paste on his bread and took a large bite. He watched Vincent do the same, taking special note when the other boy paused to lick some off his thumb. He tried not to swallow too obviously.

“Hey, it’s err, not bad. Thanks for sharing, Vinnie.”

Vincent curled his arms around his legs. “Thank _you_ , Jack. I’m very thankful to have someone to share with.”

* * *

JFK poked his head into the art room. “Vinnie? You, uh, around?”

Hair stuffed under his bandages, smock spattered with acrylic paint, Vincent ducked past his canvas to wave to JFK. A burst of sunshine went off in his chest when the other boy grinned back. “Hello Jack! I’m just finishing up a color study.”

“Cool. I was, err, wondering if you wanted to get lunch together?”

Vincent looked between JFK and his canvas, already waging mental warfare. “You know, I would really love for us to eat together, but I am so close to finishing this piece. I’d really like to do some blending on this layer. I’ve been waiting all day for it to reach the right level of dryness. Perhaps check in later?”

Frida Kahlo snorted from her desk. She was hunched over a lump of clay slowly morphing into a monkey with a flower crown. “ _Basta_ , Vincent. If I can work with clay for once, and Kahlo could work through her pain to create masterpieces, you can change your schedule to spend time with a boy. _Dios mío_. You tortured artists never take a break.”

Georgia O’Keeffe leaned over to examine Frida’s work. “Aren’t we all a bunch of tortured artists, in our own way? Just eat in the classroom. The teacher doesn’t mind.”

Vincent tried to protest that not only were the paint fumes too much for all but the strongest art students to inhale without getting woozy, he couldn’t afford to get crumbs on his portrait. JFK was already pulling a seat up to Vincent’s station and digging through his lunch.

“So it’s, err, okay if I join you for a bit, Vinnie?”

He swallowed. JFK was looking up at him with those big, pleading green eyes. With a shake of his head and a swirl of his brush, he gave in. “Sure. I suppose I would appreciate the company.”

“What,” Georgia called, “our company isn’t good enough for you?”

Frida smacked her arm. “Ay, _querida_. Do not bother them.”

Vincent laughed under his breath. The other art students were friendly enough, he supposed. He generally didn’t try to insert himself into their conversations or discuss anything outside of painting techniques.

Watching JFK bat snarky comments back and forth with them, he decided it was worth a try. He might as well work harder to befriend his classmates. He also realized that, though he’d only been eating a few minutes, JFK had already managed to smear his cheek with peanut butter.

“You have a bit of…” Vincent noted, miming wiping something off his face.

JFK chuckled through a bite of sandwich. “What? You want some snacks, shortstack?”

“No, there is something on your face.”

“Oh,” JFK drawled, raising one eyebrow, “can’t, err, keep your eyes off me, huh?”

Georgia fell forward onto her own desk with a smack. “And I can’t keep myself from feeling sick just listening to you two.”

Frida shushed her, running her slim ring-covered fingers through Georgia’s hair in a way that Vincent felt was hypocritical.

“Sorry, shortstack, I’m just messing with ya.” JFK rubbed his hand across his face, smearing a bit of jelly onto his nose. “Where’s the spot?”

Vincent rolled his eyes. “Jack! You’re just making it worse. Can’t you use a napkin?”

JFK shrugged. “Don’t have one. Can’t you just get it?”

With a huff of feigned irritation, Vincent reached out to swipe his thumb across JFK’s cheek. The other boy leaned into the pressure of Vincent’s hand and smiled. It was almost enough to distract Vincent from the spot of blue he accidentally added to the canvas of JFK’s face.

“Uh… my apologies. I seem to have made it worse as well.”

JFK touched his cheek. His fingers came away stained the same cerulean. He narrowed his eyes at Vincent. “I, err, see how it is.” Before Vincent had time to react, JFK reached up and tapped the tip of Vincent’s nose, transferring some of the wet paint.

Vincent gasped. “Hey! That was completely unintentional on my part!”

Laughing in that bold way that made Vincent’s lungs squeeze, JFK stubbed his finger into Vincent’s easel, picking up some black. He reached for Vincent’s face again.

With a squeak, Vincent ducked out of the way. “What on earth are you doing?”

“Hold still, shortstack. I’m, err, gonna give you whiskers.”

Despite Vincent’s protests, he only made it a few steps before JFK managed to swipe a black streak across his cheek. In retaliation, Vincent coated one of JFK’s eyebrows in yellow.

“That’s going to be a real pain to clean off,” Georgia noted, watching them with an amused smirk and one arm wrapped around Frida’s shoulders.

“You’re, err, a real pain,” JFK replied. His smile was brighter than the dollop of titanium white paint she lobbed at his shoulder in revenge.

* * *

JFK peered through his rain-streaked windshield. A short figure in a long raincoat was trudging along the side of the road, bright yellow rainboots getting stuck in the muck with every step. He caught a glimpse of damp reddish hair. Rolling his window down partway, JFK pulled up alongside him and called through the gap.

“Vinnie! That, err, you?”

Vincent gave a little jump. He spun around to face JFK, peering up from beneath the hood of his coat. JFK thought he looked ridiculously adorable, like a little teddy bear in boots and a coat, droplets of water pooling at the tip of his nose. “Oh, Jack! Good morning.”

“You’re wet. Hop in!” JFK offered, unlocking the doors and gesturing to the passenger seat.

Vincent opened his mouth a little, glancing between the car’s warm interior and the long walk between him and the closest bus stop. “Thank you, but really, it’s not so far. I’ll only get your seats all damp.”

“Not a problem, shortstack. It’s, err, nice and dry in here. Besides, you can get an, uh, early start on your art!” When Vincent still hesitated by the door, JFK reached for his own handle. “What? You need me to get out there and, err, help you up? ‘Cause I’ll do it, but I, uh, don’t know what it’ll do to this hair.”

“No!” Vincent threw the door open and scrambled inside, dripping water absolutely everywhere.

JFK just laughed. “There we go. Buckle up, Vinnie.”

Vincent stewed in embarrassed silence as they pulled away from the curb.

“You, uh, wanna put something on the radio?”

“Oh.” Vincent stared at JFK’s aux cord. “Yes, I’d like to. Could I share some of my own music? It’s quite all right if you don’t want to hear.”

“‘Course I do!” JFK tried to give Vincent a reassuring smile while keeping his eyes glued firmly to the road. Rain washed in sheets down the windshield, and he was grateful for the solid car roof above his head. The world around them was a mess of soggy grays. The comforting hiss of wheels on wet pavement droned on while Vincent flipped through his music.

He hit play and looked at JFK with an expression he couldn’t make out from the corner of his eye. “There we are. I have a bit of a queue. You can just tell me if you don’t like it.”

A rousingly melancholic guitar started in.

JFK pursed his lips at the road for a moment before letting out an excited shout. “It’s Simon and, err, Garfunkel, right?”

Vincent giggled. “Right! ‘The Only Living Boy In New York’.”

“My dad loves these guys.” Though JFK didn’t know the song well, he tried to hum along, stealing glances at Vincent’s pleased expression. “So how’d you end up, uh, out there in the rain? Couldn’t hitch a ride, or, err, a bus?”

“Yes, I certainly should have checked the weather report more closely. I did know it was due to rain later today. I was doing a study of van Gogh’s _Landscape at Auvers in the Rain_ this morning and didn’t have the presence of mind as I was leaving to look at the sky. It… made me feel a bit melancholic. He painted it very shortly before his death. I suppose I should just be glad for my raincoat.”

“No worries,” JFK replied, navigating them slowly through an intersection, “I can, uh, just give you a ride home at the end of the day. No more, err, melancholy, no more wet shoes. That work okay?”

“Oh, please don’t feel obliged, Jack. I really appreciate you doing me this favor.”

“It’s, err, no trouble. Seriously.”

As the last track transitioned into Elliot Smith, JFK slowed the car. They pulled into Clone High’s parking lot. It was still early, and JFK’s usual spot was empty, as were most of the spaces not reserved for teachers.

Vincent spoke over the fading notes of “Say Yes”. “Well, thank you for the ride, Jack. Will I see you at lunch?”

“Yeah, uh, you bet. Still pretty wet out there, though.” He stared meaningfully out the window.

“I suppose so?”

JFK flicked the heat up a few notches and opened the case of CDs in the center console. “Would you, err, be down to hear something else? I mean, I, err, like everything you’ve played. I was just, err, thinking it might be nice to, uh, share some of mine too.”

Vincent flipped through the CDs, Beach Boys and Dion side by side with Johnny Cash and Bruce Springsteen. “Of course! I would love to listen to some of your music, Jack. Would you like to choose?”

“Uh, I’m not really as organized as you are. I do have a Rain Mix, though. I, uh, burned the CD myself. It’s in the glove box.”

Flipping down the compartment, Vincent found a slim stack of featureless CDs in clear plastic cases, each one meticulously labelled in shaky sharpie. _Rain Mix_ sat near the top, right below _Road Trips!!_ and _Simping Soundtrack ;)_. He slid the CD into its slot and settled back into his cushioned seat.

JFK watched him with a smile. It was so warm in the car. Their own world of comfort. He always felt comfortable around Vincent, really. The little guy was just cozy to be around.

The first track came on, and Elvis Presley’s deep, melodious voice filled the car. While he crooned about the cold “Kentucky Rain”, JFK and Vincent kept talking about each other’s music taste, and he found himself more eager to learn about another person than he’d been since first meeting a mall Santa Claus.

He learned about the real JFK long before that, so it didn’t really count. Besides, as much as he had a sort of uncontrollable drive to find out about his clone father, every new piece of information he learned about the guy didn’t fill him with warm sparkling feelings like new things about Vincent did. Like the fact that Vincent sometimes listened to anime soundtracks while he worked (cute nerd) and liked to play music in the garden (just cute).

He found himself blushing like a total idiot when Vincent asked about his simp playlist. He didn’t know how to explain he got it as a joke from Ponce, but had been listening to it a lot lately on his drive to school. Listening to it and thinking about Vincent.

The parking lot began to fill with other cars. “We should, err, probably head in.”

Vincent sighed, wrapping his arms around himself in a last-ditch attempt to hold in the heat of the car. “Yes, I suppose we should.”

JFK quickly locked his door, threw his backpack on the wrong way, and hopped out into the half-flooded parking lot. He jogged around to open Vincent’s door for him. The smaller boy was picking his notebook and bag off the floor of the car and trying to fit them in under his jacket.

“Why, err, don’t you just put ‘em on? And then the jacket.”

Vincent looked up at him with a pout. “My front will get all wet. I happen to like this shirt.”

JFK dropped into a crouch, trying to avoid soaking his knees. “Nah. Come on, shortstack. I’ll carry you in.”

“Jack!” Vincent squeaked. “No, no, absolutely not. I can walk myself. You truly don’t have to.”

“What if your art supplies get all wet? Come on, you, uh, just got those shoes dry. Mine are wet already.”

Blushing furiously, Vincent layer his backpack under his raincoat and slid carefully out the car door. He locked his legs around JFK’s waist and clamped his arms around the taller boy’s shoulders. “Please don’t drop me,” he murmured.

JFK hooked his arms around Vincent’s legs and smiled out at their rain-soaked campus. “Never, Vinnie. Hold on tight.”

* * *

Vincent frantically tousled his hair into place. He’d gotten a bit too caught up in some recent sketches of JFK’s perfect face. He absolutely couldn’t be late. Though he still wasn’t sure if JFK considered the dance a date, or just a friendly outing, it was going to be a special night out with the boy Vincent was absolutely ready to admit to himself that he liked.

He adjusted his bowtie and the lapels of his jacket. There was something so serious and official about going to the dance in a suit, even if it was the same ill-fitting one Cornelia found at Goodwill for his very first middle school award show. Vincent fought down the urge to sigh and instead shot himself a grin in the mirror.

What did it matter if he hadn’t grown since seventh grade? He was going to Fall Prom with the funniest, most handsome, most popular boy in school. And—despite all prior evidence to the contrary—JFK was a really good person. Whatever else Vincent thought of himself, he had a lot to be proud of.

JFK fidgeted nervously with his bouquet of sunflowers. He couldn’t stop adjusting his tie. Prom at Clone High usually wasn’t such a big deal for him. After all, it wasn’t Winter Prom, the supposed best night of their high school careers, or Senior Prom, or any of the other dozens of very important proms that followed Fall Prom. It just happened to be the first school dance he’d ever attended with a boy.

And, since Cleo began ditching him for Abe shortly after he realized how he felt about her, it was the first dance he’d ever attended with someone he had… feelings… for. He wasn’t really sure how to deal with it. On the one hand, he just wanted Vincent to have a nice time at the dance. On the other—well, actually on both hands, since it was a pretty heavy thought and he needed most of his strength to hold it up high—he wasn’t sure what was going on between him and Vincent. And he had a pretty good idea of what he wanted to be going on.

He’d been laying the flirting on thick since Vincent asked him to the dance. Sometimes Vincent would respond like girls usually did, blushing and giggling and pushing him away. Other times he would roll his eyes and sigh and tell JFK to go to hell. Which, to be fair, was how Cleo had responded to his little compliments half the time too.

That didn’t give JFK a very good feeling. After all, he was pretty sure Cleo never liked him too much. But he just knew that Vincent was different. Even if he was reading the signals all wrong, the two of them were still friends. He could count on the other boy not to hurt him.

Vincent snuck a glance out the window and spotted JFK’s car parked just down the block. He drew in a few shallow breaths, wringing his hands. He hadn’t expected to be so nervous. He supposed he should have seen it coming, seeing as he’d never attended a dance with a date before.

He stared at the finished canvas on his wall. _Car At School In The Rain_. Their campus parking lot rendered in the dreamy blues and yellows of a French field, all scattered over with the original van Gogh’s scratchy lines of rain sheets.

In the center of the canvas sat JFK’s car reduced to a muted orange, two figures just visible through the side window. He smiled. Whatever else happened, the two of them were going to have fun at the dance. He could trust JFK to take care of him.

The door swung open. JFK gave the woman behind it his best shy-boy smile and flashed the flowers. “Err, hi! I’m here to pick up Vincent.”

“You must be JFK! Nice to meet you, kiddo, I’m Cornelia.” She waved him inside.

The living room was sparse in terms of furniture, but the walls were totally cluttered. Canvases and loose sheets of paper hung everywhere. There was art in frames, art covering the coffee table, art plastering the fridge in the next room, and art lining the stairs up to the second floor.

“It’s uh, nice to meet you Ms. Cornelia.”

She chuckled. “Please, just Cornelia. Vincent’s been so excited about this dance! You two drive safe and don’t stay out too late, okay?”

JFK nodded seriously. “I’m, err, a very safe driver. And I’ll, uh, get him home okay.”

He didn’t hear Cornelia’s reply.

Vincent appeared at the top of the stairs, decked out in an adorable bowtie and a blue suit, and JFK’s heart leapt out of his chest to meet him.

Vincent swallowed. JFK looked stunning. He wore a black tuxedo that fit him perfectly, his hair was immaculately styled, and he looked up at Vincent with a grin that could make the clouds part in a hurricane.

Wordlessly, JFK held out a bouquet of sunflowers. Vincent’s favorite.

He hurried down the stairs, chanting _don’t trip_ under his breath, and took them from the taller boy’s hands. “Thank you Jack, these are beautiful.”

Cornelia slipped off into the kitchen, probably to grab her camera, leaving the two of them shuffling their feet and grinning at each other like besotted idiots.

“Yeah, well, I guess that, err, means they match you pretty well.”

Vincent made no effort to hide his blush. “Th-thank you for agreeing to go with me. I’m excited!”

“Yeah, me too. And I’m really glad you asked me. I, err, uh, wanted to ask you, actually. I overthought it a bit, I guess. Not usually my style.”

“Well, no reason to overthink now, right? We can just enjoy the night.”

JFK reached out. Slowly, he brushed a lock of red hair back from Vincent’s face. His smile sucked the air out of Vincent’s lungs. “Right. I, uh, really think I’m going to.”

Cornelia returned from the kitchen holding a digital camera. “You boys ready to save the moment? Mom requires pictures!”

JFK wrapped an arm around Vincent’s shoulder as they followed Cornelia into the garden. Vincent let himself lean a little into the taller’ boy’s side, feeling as though his arm was a protective barrier between Vincent and the rest of the world.

For once, he didn’t mind the idea of being photographed. He wanted his memories of that moment to last forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back!! I'm so glad this fic is still getting support, and I'm happy to come back to it after that brief hiatus :) Special thanks this week to dirtycommie for their kind and bouncy words, Cai for some more adorable Vincent art, and ToastySilverEmpire for encouraging me to update!! <3 Hope you all are having a wonderful season (happy Hanukkah, everyone!) and if like me you're headed into finals, I hope they go well and you take good care of yourselves.


	8. the dance hall in arles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JFK and Vincent arrive at the Fall Prom at last.

The Beach Boys album blaring from JFK’s speakers didn’t exactly fit the red and gold leaves drowning in borrowed sunlight along the edges of the road, or the gutters still puddled with rainwater from a morning shower, but it definitely fit the bouncing beat of Vincent’s heart as they drove toward Clone High. He couldn’t stop sneaking looks at JFK. His suit fit him so well, his hair was impeccably styled, and the grin on his face lit up the whole car.

“So, you, err, uh, ready to show me some moves, shortstack?”

Vincent knew he was blushing at JFK’s gentle teasing, but he didn’t care. “I’ve never been much of a dancer. But I suppose if you’re prepared to sweep me off my feet, I’ll see what I can do.”

“Hey, if that’s what it takes!” JFK chuckled, pulling in behind a row of limousines. “Thanks for taking the car with me, Vinnie. I, err, uh, prefer to be behind the wheel when I hit the road, but I know some people, err, prefer to show up in style.”

“Of course, Jack! And who’s to say we don’t have enough style for the whole ride? I’m just happy to be spending time with you tonight.” He stared at his own flustered reflection in the window. No matter what other feelings jostled for space inside his chest—embarrassment, self-consciousness, a continual hint of confusion as to why JFK would bother going to the dance with someone like him—that blissful happiness rose above it all. He was the person JFK chose to stand at his side for one special night, and that was enough to keep him coasting on a wave of joy.

He couldn't help remembering the day last year when he'd tried to recreate Van Gogh's piece _The Dance Hall At Arles_. Looking at the original's swirling figures and yellowed circular lights, he found himself feeling so deeply left out of the scene. He could imagine the real Van Gogh standing in a crowded hall, pressed in by figures on all sides, eyes catching on the downturned faces of dancers unwilling to meet his eyes. He had thought of Clone High's many proms. In that moment, he decided that he might as well resign himself to never attending one. It was funny how quickly JFK had changed things.

“Think they’ll have any, err, tiny glasses of wine?” JFK asked, throwing the car in park and finally turning to waggle his eyebrows at Vincent.

“Probably not at an official school event. Can’t have anything around that might encourage a repeat of the pool-flipping incidents. Perhaps if you attend one of the afterparties?”

JFK shrugged. “I’m keeping my options open. Tonight, uh, I’ll just be following your lead.”

Vincent threw open his door and raced around the car to open JFK’s. “Well, in that case, may I escort you inside?” He offered his arm.

With a deep chuckle, JFK linked their arms together. “You, err, totally may.”

The dance was already in full swing. Students milled around the gym in formalwear clutching plastic flutes of soda. A dance floor dominated the center of the room, complete with painted cutouts of a city skyline. In one corner sat a photo booth with a table covered in feathered hairpieces and decorative sunglasses. Music blasted from a stage decked with speakers and flashing lights.

Mr. Butlertron, dressed in his finest tuxedo, took their tickets at the door with a congratulatory beep. “You- two- look- wonderful—Wesleys!” he exclaimed, adjusting his own bowtie proudly.

“Mr. B!” Principal Scudworth wailed from the nearby table of catered snacks. “Don’t praise the other students’ hip looks. I am _trying_ to win Prom King!”

“Do we, err, even have a Fall Prom King?” JFK asked, slinging an arm around Vincent’s shoulders and guiding him over toward the dance floor.

Vincent shook his head. “No, I really don’t think we do.”

The DJ, an older clone of Wolfgang Mozart, played a mix of pop tunes and the kind of classical music that students only tolerated when it meant getting to stand a little too close to their dancing partners and awkwardly step from side to side.

Vincent had taken a few ballroom dance classes as a child. Though it had been a long while since he was able to whirl across a room with practiced ease, he still remembered the basic steps. He led JFK through them, doing a decent impression of a waltz, both of them giggling as they narrowly missed each other’s toes and bumped elbows with other couples dancing nearby.

Colored lights swirled across the dance floor in an endless pattern. The room was dark enough that Vincent felt confident pulling JFK close in closed position, pressing their shoulders together as he led the taller boy in a promenade. His hand rested on JFK’s back, the fabric of his tuxedo smooth under his fingers.

“You know, Vinnie, you’re, uh, better at this than I expected!”

Vincent walked JFK through a spin, grinning so hard it hurt the corners of his mouth. “As the lead, my job is just to make my follow look good. In case you hadn’t noticed, Jack, it is quite easy to make you look good.”

At the end of the turn, they came back together. JFK took another step into Vincent’s space. The hand he rested on the shorter boy’s upper arm slid back to cover his shoulder blade. “It’s pretty, uh, cute that you know how to dance like this. But we’ll see what the next song sounds like.”

Vincent wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but when JFK winked down at him, he decided he didn’t actually care. What mattered was enjoying the fact that it was his turn to dance with the prettiest boy in school. And, in what was clearly a Fall Prom miracle, JFK seemed to enjoy dancing with him too.

The song changed, the next track coming in with a rising violin solo. It sounded like another classical piece. There was a strong beat beneath, and Vincent hesitated, trying to work out the timing. Then the lyrics faded in. Over a strong melodic violin, Mozart was playing the kind of get-down rap that usually had Clone High students twerking themselves to the floor and screaming along at the top of their lungs.

JFK kept his hand linked with Vincent’s as he pulled away, grooving in a decent mishmash of dance moves he’d picked up from music videos.

Laughing, Vincent followed his lead, doing his best to throw his awkward limbs around to the beat.

All around them, the dance came to life. Joan and Cleo bumped their hips together in a bouncy jam. Gandhi pulled out a few of his solid gold dance moves, occasionally jiving aside to let Marie Curie strut her stuff.

Vincent spotted Frida Kahlo and Georgia O’Keefe across the dance floor. Frida’s skirt whipped around her in a frenzy of color. She clutched the edge with her hands, ruffling and shaking it in time to the music, matching her steps to Georgia’s. Georgia wore a long black skirt and white ruffled blouse. The outfit would have looked elegant in a matronly way if not for the long slit cut up one leg, which took it firmly into party territory.

Frida saw him looking their way and waved, incorporating the move into her dance steps, shuffling in a makeshift salsa. Vincent waved back.

JFK turned to see where he was looking and grinned at Georgia, sending the pair a mock salute. “They, err, look pretty good over there,” he noted, “but not as good as us!”

Vincent kept laughing in high breathy gasps, his lungs inflating like a pair of helium balloons, as JFK dragged him off the dance floor and over toward the food.

“You look like you could, err, use a bite to eat, Vinnie. Or maybe, uh, some water.”

“I’m fine!” Vincent wheezed, clutching JFK’s arm like a life preserver. He felt so warm. “I’m fine, really—just having fun!”

“Well, I’m, err, glad to hear it. But hey, do you see what I see?”

Vincent scanned the long table in front of them. There was a small chocolate fountain dripping waterfalls of molten confection, complete with a tray covered in marshmallows and strawberries to skewer. Platters were piled high with grilled cheese sandwiches and pre-sliced cake. After a few moments of scanning the table in confusion, Vincent giggled. He pointed to a platter of crackers and dried fruit.

“You mean the tiny cheese?”

“Right on the, err, money!” JFK wrapped an arm around Vincent’s waist and pulled him in close for a slanted embrace. “Makes me feel nostalgic. And a bit hungry.”

Vincent carefully balanced a few cubes of cheese on a Ritz cracker and held them out to JFK. “Here, Jack. Revel in the nostalgia.”

Instead of reaching for it, JFK opened his mouth and chomped the cracker right out of Vincent’s hands. It was a bit cute to be hand-feeding JFK, but mostly hilarious, especially as he tried to crunch his way through the oversized bite.

Vincent hid his laughter behind one hand as JFK used a napkin to catch falling cracker crumbs.

“‘Nks, Innie!” the taller boy mumbled through a mouthful of cheese.

“You’re very welcome, Jack. You know, I suppose this does remind me how glad I am that you spoke to me at that gallery opening. It’s been wonderful getting to know you better.”

JFK swallowed his cracker and brushed the crumbs off of his lapels. “Hey, it’s, uh, been pretty nice spending time with you too. And I’m glad I, err, uh, got to bring you here. You wanna take some tiny cheese and chocolate outside?”

“Another picnic? Sounds perfect.”

They loaded up a pair of plates and headed into the open courtyard, which was cordoned off to make the job of dance crashers slightly harder. The sky outside was darkening to a deep blue. Sparkling suggestions of approaching stars twinkled around the horizon.

JFK threw his jacket off and spread it over a bench with a flourish. “Your seat, shortstack.”

“Thank you,” Vincent giggled, settling himself onto the bench and placing his plate on the ground. He patted the seat beside him. “Care to join me?”

Loosening his tie, JFK dropped down onto the bench, his arm pressed against Vincent’s side. “How are you, err, doing tonight?”

“I’m fantastic! This is actually the first school dance I’ve ever attended with—well, with anyone.”

JFK cleared his throat, eyes focused on the last flush of the sun, which had disappeared over the horizon. “I see. Never had, err, a date to the dance before?”

It wasn’t very cold out in the courtyard, but Vincent felt a shudder move up his torso. He sat up straight and clasped his hands in his lap. His thumbs wrestled nervously. “Uh, no. Never. Thank you, for, ah, agreeing to go with me.”

“No problem. It’s, err, a bit of a first for me too.” He leaned back against the bench and ran a hand through his styled hair. Vincent couldn’t remember ever hearing JFK’s voice so tight. The taller boy tried to laugh, but it sounded flimsy. “I’ve, uh, never been to a dance with a cute boy before.”

Vincent could see his breath condensing in the evening air. He imagined his face was a shade of pink known only to roses. Slowly, he turned to look at JFK. “Well. Me neither. I mean, obviously, as I’ve never had a date. But—well—I think you’re cute as well. Uh.”

JFK’s grin was blinding. “Err, yeah?”

He slung one arm across the back of the bench. Vincent edged closer, trying to look up into the other boy’s smiling face despite his flustered state. “O-of course! Uh. That is why I asked you to the dance. N-not that I don’t enjoy spending time with you no matter what!”

“Right. So, err, what would you say if I, uh, asked you to go out with me some time?”

“On a date?” Vincent asked, the words almost a squeak.

“Uh, yeah! On a date.”

“Yes? Yes! I would absolutely say yes.”

JFK’s arm dropped down to circle Vincent’s shoulders. He tugged him in close, resting his cheek on top of the shorter boy’s ruffled hair. “Well, I, err, sure am glad you dragged me to the dance, Vinnie. I think it’s, uh, gonna be a lot of fun.”

Vincent squeezed his eyes shut and leaned into the warmth of JFK’s side. He let out a slow breath, enjoying the soft strains of classical music drifting through the gym’s walls.

The door into the courtyard flew open to let another student through. Vincent expected JFK to jerk away in surprise, but instead he tightened his grip on Vincent, head whipping around to watch the door.

Helen of Troy stormed through the doorway with her flowing white gown flouncing in the cool breeze. “John F. Kennedy, you told me you would not be coming to the dance at all. You have some explaining to do!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back with another chapter!! This one's a bit short, but I hope you enjoyed it <3 Now that I'm finally on break, I wanted to give this fic a bit of attention! 
> 
> The narrative arc I had planned is coming to an end, but I never really had a solid idea for where this fic was going to go, I just wanted to explore the relationship between these two. Let me know in the comments if you'd be interested in this continuing to update with more stories about JFK and Vincent, or if you'd prefer to end in the short-term with a satisfying finish ^-^
> 
> As always, thanks for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos!! The response to this fic makes me so happy <3 Thanks to BoredWithLife and ispanakcocuk for their lovely comments last chapter, and to the usual crew of wonderful commenters for keeping me going on this fic!!

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all, no clue how active this fandom is, but I have Vincent brain rot and needed to get this on paper!! Apparently I'm a sucker for side pairings. If you liked this, please leave kudos and comments, which are the only things (other than tiny cheese) that sustain me! ETA: I've decided to turn this into a multi-chaptered fic since the first couple commenters seemed interested in reading more :) look forward to idiocy, pining, artistically-placed flowers, and (possibly) tiny wine.


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